


Best Enemies

by Augustus



Series: Best Enemies [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Canon, Birthday, Christmas, Denial, Drunk Harry, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Time, Kissing, M/M, Quidditch, Romance, Sexual Content, Slow Build, Slow Burn, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-03 17:55:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 106,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8724160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Augustus/pseuds/Augustus
Summary: Draco and Harry have always been enemies. It's all they've ever known. But then Harry starts to act as though he actually LIKES Draco, much to Draco's surprise and horror. Worse still, Draco slowly discovers that he's not as revolted by Harry's presence as he's always liked to think.





	1. Prologue: Downfall

**Author's Note:**

> This story was begun way back in 2002 and, until recently, left unfinished in 2004. Back then, it was a series of stories under this name, which was marred by continuity issues and a terribly verbose phase I went through in 2003. Due to the timing, it was—and remains—canon compliant only up until GoF. Best Enemies was my baby and I stopped writing for fear that I would ruin it, but over the years it has continued to bug me that the last part of the tale remained unwritten. Every time I would receive a comment from a kind reader asking for more, I wished that I could write it, but it was only recently that I decided I should. After all, I couldn’t ruin the story any more by finishing it than I had by leaving it incomplete! 
> 
> This novel version has been greatly edited for continuity and style, but I have left it as an Alternate Canon piece because updating it to DH canon would make it into something it was not. Several of the chapters have been almost entirely re-written, but I have tried to keep the feel of the piece the same. I’ve tagged it underage to be safe, but the characters are seventeen, which makes them wizarding adults and above the age of consent in Muggle Britain 
> 
> Thank you to all the people over the last fourteen years who wanted to read more. This is for you.

The war was fought and lost in the summer that followed my sixth year at Hogwarts. The date surprised us all, as the Dark Lord had seemed to be timing his assaults to coincide with the end of each school year. Dumbledore, great fool that he was, had even been heard telling parents that they had nothing to fear until after we’d sat our N.E.W.T.s. In the end, though, the moment had been decided by the Dark Lord and not by the onset of Harry Potter’s final exams.

My father was in the centre of the fighting when it all ended. He found the occasion quite a disappointment, having predicted a vicious exchange of curses leading to the eventual fulfilment or destruction of the infamous prophesy. Instead, the climax had been a muttered unforgivable from Potter and the complete obliteration of the Dark Lord. It was all a lot easier than anyone had expected—that is, at least it was for those who hadn't been twisted by curses or deprived of a loved one by the fighting.

After the war, most witches and wizards resumed their normal lives. There were few reprisals for those who had fought at the Dark Lord’s side. In war, no one is without guilt. Many people died in the weeks prior to and during the showdown, and there were bloodied hands on both sides of the conflict. It is easier, after all, to ignore the faults of others than it is to admit faults of one’s own.

Potter remained a hero or a villain, depending on one’s perspective. The war proved profitable for my father, who was uninclined to mourn the loss of a leader whose ideas he shared but whose dominance he despised. We wore black robes to the funerals of Ernest Parkinson and Darius Nott, just as our counterparts said goodbye to their own family and friends. The war did little to change anyone or anything. It happened and then it was gone. It is human nature that shapes a war—and never the other way around.

Sometimes, a beginning is hard to identify, revealed only by the passage of time and an unfurling of events. There are glowing moments that catch you and bind you with possibilities and there are throat-swelling revelations that leave you exhausted and confused and doubting your very existence. In the end, though, there is only one true beginning.

For me, it all started with a smile.

 

*

 

The Great Hall was decorated with candles and bunting. The echoes of countless conversations rebounded from the walls as I sat, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, and waited for the room to fill. It felt strange to think that I was about to begin my final year at Hogwarts. So much of my life had revolved around school for the past six years that it seemed unthinkable that my time there might come to an end.

At the front of the hall, the usual professors sat in their places at the head table. McGonagall and Sprout were deep in conversation; Snape glowered out at his assembled students, seeming unchanged by his role in the war. As I watched, he plucked stiffly at one sleeve of his robes, no doubt a habit formed over years of trying to hide the Mark. I wondered if his skin, like my father’s, seemed to draw into shadows under the brightest light. Snape had been lauded a hero in the end; perhaps that made a difference. Father’s spoils of war lay heaped in Gringotts vaults and shone in dazzling loops around my mother’s neck.

Dumbledore, appearing weakened by the events of the summer, looked almost fragile as his gaze circled the room. His eyes were still bright, but there was a slight tremble to his hand as he reached for his wine goblet. For the first time, it struck me that one day he would not be there to greet Hogwarts students at the beginning of the school year. The thought didn’t please me as much as I might have liked. Old fool that he was, Dumbledore was nonetheless so deeply tied to my own history that it was difficult to think of him as anything less than immortal. The Dark Lord had been defeated; it seemed that time, as an enemy, might be more difficult to subdue.

To my right, Goyle toyed with his own glass, rubbing a finger softly against the rim in order to create a whisper of discordant sound. “I feel older,” he stated glumly, glancing at me as though seeking validation.

“You are.” The wood of the table was tattooed with faded scratches, lined reflections of students who had long since passed through Hogwarts’s doors for the final time. Carefully, I carved a shaky furrow in the timber with a fingernail, criss-crossing two narrow indentations. “We all are.”

Rubbing at my temples, I wished for the night to be over. Earlier in the day, I could think of nothing but the excitement of being at Hogwarts again but now, faced with empty chairs at the Slytherin table and a cluster of first years undoubtedly waiting at the top of the staircase, excitement had faded into dull resignation. Next year, mine would be one of the chairs left empty. The thought was stifling.

“I wonder where the girls are,” Crabbe wondered idly. Turning to face me, he regarded me with raised eyebrows. “Did Pansy say anything to you about being late?”

“No.” Uncomfortable, I shifted awkwardly in my seat. “I haven’t seen her yet.”

Goyle nudged me suggestively, the point of his elbow sharp between my ribs. “Making her wait, are you?” he teased.

“Something like that.”

“How is she?” Crabbe shot Goyle a disbelieving look. “I haven’t seen her since... well, you know.”

“The funeral?”

He nodded eagerly, obviously relieved that he had not been forced to say the word.

“She’s okay.” Even I could hear the note of pride within my voice. “You know what Pansy’s like. Nothing can break her.”

“I’m glad it wasn’t my dad.”

I turned to give Goyle an amused look. “Not likely, Goyle. From what I’ve heard, your father made sure to keep himself _far_ from any real danger.”

“My dad’s a war hero!” he protested. “Mum told me so.”

“Did she really?” I asked mildly, feeling no need to argue my point.

Twisting in my chair, I turned to watch the doorway, looking out for familiar faces. A couple of fifth year Slytherin girls walked into the hall, deeply immersed in conversation. Their cloaks floated stiffly about their bodies in a crass image of newness and I noted that this year’s fashion was a couple of inches longer than the last. Behind the girls, two Hufflepuff boys I couldn’t place snickered at an unheard joke. Their laughter ended abruptly as they walked past Filch, who watched them suspiciously as they quickly made their way to their table, one boy casting a nervous glance back over his shoulder as he sat.

Smirking, I returned my attention to the rear of the room, my expression freezing as Harry Potter stepped through the doorway, followed as always by a cluster of adoring Gryffindors. “Don’t look now,” I muttered, my voice curling thickly from my throat, “but another war hero has just entered the room.”

“Who?” Crabbe asked stupidly, spinning awkwardly in his seat. “Oh,” he said, following the direction of my gaze. “Him.”

I glared malignantly at Potter for a few moments before it became obvious that he wasn’t going to look in my direction. “I suppose it was too much to hope that he might have decided to finish his schooling elsewhere,” I remarked lightly, turning back to the table and smiling at Goyle with a perfectly-hewn look of indifference. “I should have known that he’d return to bask in the dubious glory of his victory. Just look at all those Gryffindorks, following him about as if he were a god.”

“I think he got even uglier over the holidays,” Crabbe sniggered, still twisted around in his chair so that he could follow Potter’s progress across the room. “He certainly didn’t grow any taller.”

“Height isn’t everything,” Goyle said wisely, stifling a laugh with the sort of smug condescension that was only possible for someone who had recently topped six foot three.

“Being an irritating do-gooder, however…” I smirked and traced one of the scratches in the table top with my fingertip. “I suppose he’ll be more unbearable than usual this year. It’s not as though he did anything particularly spectacular; a first year could use the killing curse if they were so inclined.”

“Yeah.” Crabbe nodded furiously. “My dad’s used it heaps of times. Mum too.”

I raised one hand and covered his mouth. “Not here, Crabbe. Some people have selective memories.”

On the other side of the room, Potter laughed, the sound carrying to my ears above the general clamour of conversation. My mouth twisted into a scowl as I pressed a little harder against the furrow I was following, the increased pressure making my finger’s movement abrupt and jagged.

“Hello, Pansy.”

Entangled within my hatred for Potter, it took a moment for Goyle’s words to register inside my mind. When they did, my heartbeat quickened, my stomach knotting as I raised my gaze.

“Hi.” Pansy smiled briefly at the other Slytherins before turning to face me, her smile momentarily faltering before becoming brighter and garishly artificial. “Hello, Draco.”

In the enchanted light of the Great Hall, she was beautiful. The events of the summer had hidden her from the sun’s rays, and her skin was winter pale beneath the dark frame of her hair. Slight shadows beneath her eyes hinted at her loss, but they didn’t detract from the soft curve of her lashes as her gaze flitted erratically across my face. Her lips were tight around her smile, and I remembered how soft they had felt when I had kissed her and the way that her breath had tickled the side of my neck when she had wrapped her arms tightly around my waist.

“Pansy.” I nodded, the word clumsy and warm.

Goyle looked from me to her, frowning as he turned back to face me. “Um...” he began, before trailing off, obviously unsure as to whether his question would be welcomed.

Pansy nodded slightly when I met her eyes, sliding into the chair across from my own. Her smile faded as she reached out to claim her water glass, reappearing only momentarily when Crabbe acted the gentleman in filling it from a nearby pitcher. I watched her as she drank, her eyes closing briefly as she focused on the sensation of the cool liquid filling her throat. She hadn’t changed at all since the beginning of summer... and yet she was barely recognisable at the same time.

I filled my own glass before speaking, a futile gesture of solidarity that seemed only the more ridiculous before the weight of my revelation. “Pansy and I broke up.”

Goyle and Crabbe’s “what?” was echoed by that of Millicent Bulstrode, who had slid into the seat beside Pansy whilst I was occupied with filling my glass. Crabbe fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair, while Goyle ran a hand through his hair, obviously as surprised as he was confused.

“But... why?” he asked finally, his tone soft, as though uncertain whether he should be speaking at all. “Why now? After everything that’s happened...”

“My father has nothing to—” Pansy paused, her eyelids flitting closed for the duration of a heartbeat as she collected herself. “It wasn’t going anywhere.” She began again, her voice even and her syllables carefully defined. I could feel her words in my bones, insidious and creeping. “It was a mutual decision in the end.”

I allowed her the lie. It would have been callous to deny her something as simple as her dignity when I still loved her as dearly as I always had, even though it was in the wrong way. We had been friends since childhood, pushed together by parents and circumstances, and lovers since the end of fifth year. We shared an understanding that stretched across both our lifetimes and, in a way, her words weren’t so very far from the truth. There had been no hysterical scenes or declarations of hatred, just a dull resignation that hung between us in thickly congealed strands. When I told her, the sun had formed shards of crimson within her hair and the summer wind tossed and fragmented the splinters of light. The air had smelled of history and freshly cut grass and I had counted the freckles upon her nose because I couldn’t meet her gaze.

She had taken it well. The funeral had been two weeks previous, the prospect of a new school year looming in the fortnight ahead. We had kissed a conclusion, her hands tightly grasping mine, squeezing until my fingers felt bruised and numb. When she unfolded herself from my embrace, she stood as tall as she’d always done, her eyes bright and glittering as she smiled. My chest burnt with the moment. She nodded once, resolute, then allowed me to leave.

Back at Hogwarts and sitting only feet away from me, she retained the same air of righteous civility that I remembered from the summer. Her determination to be the better person shone from the rigid set of her shoulders and the even accusation of her gaze. I wished that I could hate her, but I found myself overflowing with admiration instead.

“I thought you’d end up married,” Millicent remarked glumly. “You were the perfect couple.”

Pansy and I exchanged a glance.

“We were,” I agreed, inwardly cringing as Potter’s laugh rose above the conversation once again, annoyed that he could even interfere with my life from a distance.

“So what happened, then?” Millicent prompted, always fascinated by others’ sadness or misfortune.

“I don’t know,” Pansy replied, and the way that her mouth tightened around the words caused my heart to beat a little faster inside my chest. “I don’t know,” she repeated, her voice almost a whisper and, when she looked at me, the hurt condemnation in her eyes was more powerful than any voiced disapproval could ever be.

My stomach churned with rare guilt. “Perfect isn’t everything,” I muttered, turning to face the front of the room as Dumbledore lightly tapped the side of his goblet in a request for silence.

“Nothing lasts,” Pansy added quietly. “Not even things that have always been there.”

I reached across the table to take her hand. She endured the touch for a moment, before twisting her fingers from my grasp. Millicent eyed me, amused. I scowled at her out of habit and took up my glass as a replacement for Pansy’s hand. My head was throbbing. I felt suddenly, irrevocably old.

 

*

 

“Watch where you’re going,” I snapped as a solid weight slammed into my side, paying no attention to the identity of my assailant.

“You can talk.”

Thrown, I turned towards the direction of the voice, my suspicions confirmed as I found myself looking into the annoyed eyes of Harry Potter.

“You were miles away,” he continued accusingly. “If I hadn’t—accidentally—knocked into you, you would probably have ended up falling down the stairs. You should thank me for saving your life.”

“I can’t see that happening any time soon,” I sneered. “If I were you, I shouldn’t hold my breath.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Instead of turning to follow his friends down the hallway as I had expected him to, he remained in front of me, his gaze steady as the corners of his mouth rose in a mischievous smile. “So… how was your summer?”

“Small talk with Harry Potter?” Laughing, I chose to make light of what was presumably a dig about the outcome of the war. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“You know me.” He leaned in a little, as though ready to confess some shameful secret, and lowered his voice so that his words were only a fraction louder than a whisper. “I love a lost cause.”

“That would explain your choice in friends.” I smiled smugly, pleased with my response.

“Touché.“ Potter raised an eyebrow. “You know, you’re cute when you’re feeling superior.”

I glared at him, unmoved by his attempt to disorient me. “I always feel superior,” I snapped, wondering why I had to be so unfortunate as to encounter my enemy on my very first evening back at school.

“Make of that what you will.” His eyes glinted with amusement beneath his glasses, the light creases at their outer edges mirroring the gentle indentations at the corners of his mouth. I couldn’t help but notice that his lips were fuller than I would have imagined, the flickering torchlight of the hall forming transient shadows in the hollows of his face.

Crabbe had been wrong. Potter had changed over the summer, but the differences would not have been considered unfavourable to more objective eyes. His features had lost some of the childish roundness that they had held the year before, and I could see the beginnings of his adult face. He seemed no taller than the last time I had stood beside him, but his shoulders were undeniably broader and there was a mild strength to his form that was markedly different to his previous angularity. It was as though he, too, was taking his first steps on a new path now that his nemesis was dead. I could only hope that his destination would not be the same as my own.

“Did you miss me over the summer?” he teased, for some reason prolonging the encounter beyond its natural, irritating life span.

“I didn’t so much as think of you,” I lied.

For a moment, he had the audacity to look a little hurt, but then his mouth twisted back into a smile. “Nice try,” he said, “but even you would’ve found it difficult to completely ignore the war. You seem different tonight,” he went on, in a tone that was almost casual, starkly incongruous with the situation and with the strained look that shone from his eyes. “You look the same, but there’s something about you that’s changed.”

“I still hate you, if that’s what you’re asking,” I snapped, tired of his ceaseless prodding.

“No.” He seemed unaffected by the violence in my tone. “That’s not what I meant.” He leaned towards me and, for a moment, it seemed almost as though he was about to kiss me, his eyes appearing to caress my features for a moment before they rose to brazenly meet my own. It was hard to know what was more disconcerting—the thought of his lips against mine or the steady inquisition of his gaze. "I saw you, you know. On the battlefield. I saw—"

"You didn't see anything," I interjected before he could go on. "I wasn't there."

"I saw you," he insisted.

"You must've been mistaken."

He watched me through narrowed eyes for several seconds before speaking again. "I guess I'd want to forget it too," he said. "It must have been—"

I jumped in again, not wanting to hear the odd note of sympathy in his voice. "I wasn't there."

If I said it enough, it would be as good as true.

"Fine," he said, his expression unreadable. "You weren't there. The war still must've been hard on you. I know a lot of Slytherins lost family members.”

“Not at all,” I replied sullenly, refusing to allow him the victory of my looking away. “We did rather nicely out of it.”

“I hope you don’t put it like that when you’re talking to your girlfriend,” Potter said, the bitter set of his mouth forming an uneasy contrast to the casual tone of his words. “Her father was one of the casualties, I heard.”

“Of course not,” I said, annoyed, “but she’s not my girlfriend. Pansy and I broke up.” I kept my tone even, unwilling to allow him any glimpse of emotion. My fingers twisted in the fabric of my cloak.

“Do you think you’ll get back together?” He asked the question as though he had every right to know the answer, his impudence almost comforting in its familiarity.

Life might be moving forward, I realised, but Harry Potter would remain a constant, at least for as long as I remained at Hogwarts. The war was over, Pansy and I were no longer together and everyone looked aged and different, but there was nothing ephemeral in my hatred for Potter. It had defined me for as long as I could remember, shaping my words and my actions and influencing every facet of my existence. It was as though we had been created in order to be the worst of enemies, measuring our gains and successes through each bitter interaction.

The knowledge was comforting and exhilarating at the same time.

“I doubt it,” I said casually, unwilling to give any indication that the break-up was anything but near-forgotten history to me.

“Good.”

My breath caught in my throat as something almost recognisable flashed within Potter’s eyes. Frowning, I swallowed thickly and attempted to mould my face into a scowl. For the first time in six years, my resolve trembled and I couldn’t have spoken if I tried. I thought of the cold horror on Pansy’s face when I had told her that it was over and of the nights I had spent questioning my decision, and I wished that I could take it all back, if only to halt the ceaseless movement of time.

When I did speak, it was a rushed confession, my words thick with admissions he knew nothing about. “I wasn’t in love with her.”

As I turned to leave, Potter smiled.


	2. The Perfect Plan

It had all seemed so easy. Too easy. With the benefit of hindsight, perhaps I should have been suspicious from the start, but I always found it hard to focus on potential negatives when a dastardly plan was brewing in my head. Especially when that dastardly plan was so brilliant and so breath-taking in its simplicity that I couldn’t help but wonder how I had failed to envision it years before it actually crossed my mind. The thought of having needlessly spent the last six years in the shadow of Harry Potter’s dubious celebrity was more than a little depressing, but at last there seemed to be an end in sight. If it had taken until my final year at Hogwarts to have Potter expelled, then all the years of feuding would serve to make my victory that little bit brighter. No more talk of war heroes, no more favouritism from the teachers and pathetic worship from our peers. My conquest of Potter would be absolute. And it seemed unavoidable in the face of what was surely the perfect plan.

As a Malfoy, I was brought up to believe that all was fair in... well, pretty much _any_ situation, really, as long as it didn’t involve bettering my father in an argument. Underhand tactics just served to make a battle more interesting, especially where hexes were involved. Of course, it helped if your opponent was as appallingly virtuous as Harry Potter was. For someone who had just turned seventeen, he still seemed reluctant to show even the slightest twinge of teenage rebellion. There had been persistent rumours in the Slytherin common room about an isolated incident involving the wilful wearing of mismatched socks, but that was hardly enough to earn him a place in _The Wizard’s Book of Villains_ or, indeed, any of the other texts set for our final year. Even his battle with the Dark Lord had provided little room for censure. The general consensus was that Potter’s use of an Unforgivable Curse was justified, as he had acted only in self-defence. It came as little surprise to me that he had proved irredeemably dull, even in the heat of battle.

There was very little chance of sly or below-the-belt attacks being cast my way in any fight with Potter, which was always good to know. Although I was certainly not a coward—with any insinuations to the contrary being likely to earn you a free trip to the Hospital Wing, courtesy of Crabbe and Goyle—I much preferred the idea of going into battle with a feeling of infallibility. That came a lot easier when my opponent played strictly by the rules.

The only other good thing about having Harry Potter as an enemy was that he was trusting to the extent of complete idiocy, especially where his precious Gryffindor friends were concerned. If Granger and Weasley denied everything about the incident in the Herbology storeroom, then that was good enough for Potter, even if they had made their excuses with potting mix in their hair. It was a little different with me, of course—even _Potter_ knew not to believe every word spoken by a mortal enemy—but it wouldn't take much more than a combination of seemingly heartfelt words and innocent-looking eyes to earn his trust.

I had a feeling that it might help that those aforementioned eyes just happened to be particularly large and really quite fetching, especially when I felt it worthwhile to turn on the Malfoy charm. I also knew to force my usual scowl of derision into a fair approximation of an angelic pout. It never quite looked natural on me, but I doubted Potter would be smart enough to see through it. I thought it more likely that he’d be too busy being dazzled by my intelligence and good looks.

Being neither virtuous nor remotely trusting, I knew better than to believe that Potter’s lack of interest in Granger and the female Weasley and every other girl at Hogwarts was purely a matter of preference and devotion to his studies. He never looked at girls the way the other boys did. Not once had I seen him try for a glimpse up a Hufflepuff’s skirt on the staircase. Instead, since the start of the school year he had been becoming distracted and embarrassed in Potions class, a sure sign of someone nursing a crush on Snape. (Which, in turn, was a sure sign of appalling taste, but what could you expect from someone who chose Hermione Granger for a friend?)

Potter’s hatred for me didn’t make him immune to a double helping of Malfoy charisma and dashing good looks, especially if it caught him by surprise. Hell, once it had even worked on Weasley when I had needed someone to misplace one half of every pair of Potter’s socks.

No, I could see no obstacles in the way of my wonderful plan's success. Soon I would be free of Harry Potter's presence for good. And then, with Potter gone and the war out of the way, I could actually enjoy my final year at Hogwarts.

 

*

 

I waited until the perfect moment to put my plan into action. Potions class had almost finished for the day, and Snape was too busy clearing the various jars and vials away into the storeroom to pay much attention to his students. Making sure that I gave nothing away by my expression, I slid gracefully into the spare seat that had been conveniently created beside Potter after Longbottom’s latest miscalculation of ingredients had sent both him and Ron Weasley to the Hospital Wing.

"When are we going to do this assignment, then?" I asked, my voice lowered so that only Potter could hear.

"What?" He turned to look at me, his face a picture of confusion.

"The _assignment_." I sighed. "Don't tell me you weren't listening again."

"I thought I was. I guess I got distracted"

The look on Potter’s face was hilarious. I bit the inside of my lip to prevent a smile from giving the whole thing away. “Well?” I asked, once I felt that I could trust myself to speak without spoiling everything with a stray snigger. “Do you know what we’re meant to be doing or not?”

He smiled weakly. "Not."

I sighed again, hoping that I wasn't over-acting. "I don't know how you missed it," I said, widening my eyes to about 70 per cent of their maximum impact. "It was when Snape was writing on the board a few minutes ago.”

“I must have been daydreaming.”

“From what I’ve heard, you don’t have the marks for that. Seems like you’d be better off paying attention instead of mooning over your latest crush.”

I watched with pleasure as a pale flush on Potter’s cheeks and ears darkened into a vibrant shade of fuchsia. “Anyway,” I continued, “as you seem to have somehow _missed_ hearing the assignment, we’re expected to prepare two scrolls on the historical development of truth potions by Monday.”

Deciding it was time to move in for the kill, I widened my eyes the final 30 per cent. “In pairs. Although I have _no_ idea why Snape assigned me to work with you. Perhaps he got sick of having to read your foolish scribbles all the time.”

My lines perfectly executed, I sank back into the chair, awaiting Potter’s response.

“What? He’s making us work together? That’s not fair!” He looked dismayed. If there hadn’t been more important things at stake, I might have been offended. As it was, I was pleased that he’d accepted my lie so readily.

“I don’t see why you’re so upset,” I said, smirking. “You might actually get a decent mark for a change. Although, if you drag _my_ average down, even by a fraction of a per cent, I’ll be very annoyed.”

"I'm sure you'll live," Potter muttered, distracted. "There's a Quidditch match on Sunday," he mused, "which means we'll be practising for most of tomorrow. Are you... er... busy this evening?"

I laughed. "You make it sound like you're asking me for a date, Potter." Ignoring his attempt at a withering glare, I continued. "But no, I don't have anything else planned. You can meet me in the Slytherin common room at eight."

"The Slytherin area?" Potter looked rather horrified at the suggestion. "I'm not going in there! Besides, it's not allowed. Why can't we work in the library?"

"What? And be surrounded by your studious little friends? Not to mention the looks and whispers we’ll get for being there together. No way." I crossed my arms defiantly. "Don't try to pretend you've never broken a school rule before. We both know otherwise. Do you want to pass this assignment, or would you rather I had a word to Snape about your lack of cooperation?"

"Not much of a choice, is it?” He glared at me for a moment before shrugging. "Okay. I'll be there at eight."

"Fine. The password's 'mudblood'."

Potter's glare intensified.

I did my best to smother a self-satisfied grin as I made my way back to my own seat, sliding into it just as Snape reappeared from the storeroom. I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect response than the one Potter had provided. Being Potter’s enemy would’ve been a hell of a lot easier if things had always gone that smoothly. Usually, however, something went horribly wrong and I ended up serving detention for weeks on end while Potter escaped unharmed. Sometimes it seemed like he was truly invincible.

Of course, I wasn’t about to believe that. Malfoys always emerged victorious in the end, whether through their own considerable talents or through a sizeable bribe. And, on this occasion, victory already seemed to be in sight. The most difficult part of my scheme—getting Potter into enemy territory—had been achieved. The remaining steps were almost embarrassingly simple: get him intoxicated and have him expelled.

Over the summer holidays, I had been fortunate enough to stumble upon a potion formula for a fast-acting and undetectable intoxicant in one of the books on the highest shelf of my father’s library. Whether the book had been placed there to keep it out of my reach or to instantly spark my curiosity, it was difficult to say. Either way, it had seemed as though I had been fated to find the recipe; the book had even fallen open at the correct page when I had dropped it onto my bed.

Once I’d discovered the formula, it was easy to copy down the ingredients for the potion and to replace the book, and almost as easy to collect those ingredients once I’d discovered the key to the Potions storeroom in a swift search of Snape’s office. Although the potion’s chemical composition was different from that of alcohol, it had much the same effect, apart from the fact that only a tiny drop was needed to get the desired result. I wanted to be sure of the liquid’s effectiveness, so I tested it myself. After an enjoyable evening playing ‘pin the tail on the Hufflepuff’ with Crabbe and Goyle, I felt confident enough to declare the formula a success. A drop or two of that dream-fulfilling elixir and Potter would be well and truly intoxicated. And then, all that it would take would be a quick (and oh so reluctant) word to Snape and I’d be Potter-free for the rest of my time at Hogwarts. The plan was too brilliant for anything to go wrong.

This time, finally, victory would be mine.

  
*

 

Like the fool he was, Potter arrived at the Slytherin study at exactly eight in the evening, carrying an armful of textbooks and looking as though he'd prefer to be within claw's reach of a starving lion than in my area of the school. He was wearing one of those ghastly hand-knitted Weasley jumpers, complete with a large, crooked 'H', just in case anyone he encountered was particularly deficient in spelling ability. Despite general appearances, he'd obviously grown a little over the summer, as the jumper’s arms were an inch too short for him. He clutched his books awkwardly as he looked around the common room, obviously ill at ease in such unfamiliar—and unfriendly—surroundings. When he spotted me, his face registered something that could have been relief.

He approached and greeted me with a wary "Hello." As he placed his books on the table, his gaze flickered around the room. "No one else around?"

I had used my considerable influence to ensure that we would be alone, but wasn't about to reveal that fact to an already-jittery Potter. "No," I said instead, adding a shrug of my shoulders as a nice touch. "One of the third years is celebrating her birthday today and there are free sweets and cake to be had in her dormitory."

Potter's eyebrows disappeared somewhere under the mess of his fringe. "You do that sort of thing too?" he asked, obviously surprised.

"Of course we do." I rolled my eyes disparagingly. "How did you think we acknowledged Slytherin birthdays? By sacrificing a few babies? Feasting on the blood of virgins?"

Potter looked as though he wouldn’t have been at all surprised if that had turned out to be the case, but he was too polite to say it. “Well. No,” he said. “I suppose not.”

"Just because you have a problem with _me,_ that doesn't make my entire house a den of evil, you know," I laughed. "Merlin’s beard, Potter, drag yourself out of the Junior Fiction section and into the real world."

He glared speechlessly for a few seconds before taking a visible breath and letting my comment slide. Pulling out a chair, he sat down in front of the pile of books and then looked expectantly up at me. "Well?" he asked. "Are you finished lecturing me on the good-hearted nature of Slytherin?" He continued without waiting for my reply. “If you are, do you think we could get this blasted essay over and done with? I can think of at least a thousand people I'd rather be spending my evening with."

Smiling benignly, I placed an open bottle of butterbeer in front of Potter. I took a long drink from a second bottle as I seated myself opposite him. "What _are_ Weasley and Granger doing tonight?"

He gulped a quick mouthful of his drink before replying. "I don't know. Homework, I presume. I didn't ask."

"I suppose they gave you plenty of sympathy for being partnered with me for this assignment." The effect of my innocent expression was almost ruined by a rogue smirk but I managed to turn it into an angelic pout.

"Not exactly." Potter's own face was almost _too_ easy to read, his eyes wary and his lips thin with concern. "I haven't seen them since Transfiguration this afternoon."

"No? Have you tried the Herbology storeroom?"

Potter’s expression was priceless. I had to bite my lip to prevent myself from laughing out loud. "That's just a rumour," he said tightly, although I could hear the coils of his trust beginning to unravel in the dull tone of his voice.

I shrugged. "If you say so."

"If they were... _doing_ anything... they'd tell me about it."

"Of course."

Frowning, Potter took another large gulp of his drink. "Of course," he repeated.

Turning a snigger into a strangled sounding cough, I busied myself by digging around in the pockets of my robes. "Want something to eat before we start?" I asked, producing a crumpled pack of biscuits. "That stew we had for dinner was revolting. It tasted like the house-elves had been bathing in it."

Potter looked suspiciously at the packet. “What have you done to them?” he asked. “Spat on them? Poisoned them? Cursed them? If I eat one, am I going to turn into a chimpanzee?”

"You don't have a very high estimation of me, do you?" I said. "Of course they're not poisoned. Do you think I want to do this assignment by myself?"

Potter still looked dubious, but took a biscuit nonetheless, washing it down with another long gulp of his drink. "This is good butterbeer," he commented, wiping his mouth. "Where'd you get it? Hogsmeade?”

"I'm not sure. I generally send Crabbe or Goyle to do that sort of thing for me." I waved my hand like a generous benefactor. "Drink up. There's more in my dorm room if you feel like a second."

My smile widened as Potter followed my suggestion, taking another long drink from his bottle. At this rate, I’d have him expelled before the clock even hit nine pm.

"So, have you done any research?" he asked. There was the slightest hint of a slur on the final word. "Or are we starting from scratch?"

"Snape said that we don’t need to do any research,” I replied, making it up on the spot. “We’re meant to write it using only our notes from class. But there’s no hurry,” I added, smirking. “We don’t need to get started right away. That is, unless you’re worried you’ll miss your bedtime.”

Potter rolled his eyes. "Not likely."

"What is it then?" I asked, smiled innocently at him. "Worried you're missing out on all of the fun and games with Granger and the weasel?"

He choked on his latest mouthful, the action colouring his face an interesting shade of red. It took him almost a minute to contain his coughing. "You seem rather interested in my friends," he replied as coolly as was possible amidst his dramatic spluttering.

I shrugged. "Not really. I'm more interested in your reactions," I admitted. "I can't decide whether you feel left out or just plain jealous."

"Jealous?" The coughing had subsided, but his syllables were definitely beginning to sound slurred. "Why would I be jealous? I've no romantic interest at all in Hermione."

"I wasn't talking about Hermione." I leant back in my chair and folded my arms, awaiting the denial that was sure to follow.

"Ron?" Potter looked surprised for a moment, and then a little disgusted. "No way!" He shook his head dramatically, sending his fringe forward into his eyes. "He's too freckly. And too tall. And too... Ron!"

"And too male?" I suggested, one brow raised in bemusement.

Potter seemed curiously unwilling to meet my eyes. "Not exactly," he muttered, digging around in the pile of books in front of him, as if to provide a distraction. "Do you think we'll need the textbook at all?" he asked, changing the subject effectively, if not exactly surreptitiously.

I decided to go easy on him—at least for the moment. "You might as well get it out," I said, shrugging. "In case we have to check anything."

While Potter blushed into the pages of our Potions text, I took a furtive glance at my watch. Eight-fifteen. If the book in my father's study and my trial run proved correct, the potion should be just about to hit Potter in a big way.

"That's _really_ good butterbeer!" Potter said suddenly, forgetting about the textbook and concentrating on the bottle instead. He lifted it up to his eyes, starting at it with an almost religious devotion. "It's very... beerbuttery."

I smiled one of my most evil smiles. "Is it?" I asked mildly, the smile growing a little wider as Potter nodded vigorously. "I'm glad you like it. Of course, it's not as good as virgins' blood. But then, we only get to drink that on our birthdays."

Potter laughed raucously before placing the bottle back on the table with greatly exaggerated care. "Does it taste very different from other blood?" he asked.

"A little tangier." My smile grew even more evil. "But you've tasted your own blood, surely. You should know."

He stared innocently back at me. "Haven't tried anyone else's, though. I'm a wizard, not a vampire."

The first half-dozen replies that entered my mind were not of a nature suited to a conversation with one's worst enemy. After opening my mouth to speak a few times before thinking better of it, I finally settled on the safer option of a subject change. "Why do you hate Slytherin so much anyway?" I asked. "Well, apart from it being my house.”

Potter frowned. "Dunno," he said finally, his speech seemingly becoming more slurred with every second. "Because that's where all the bad guys come from?" he offered. "Like Vodel... Voldie... Voddy..." Laughing, he gave up. "Like You-Know-Who."

I nodded seriously, as if in sincere understanding, but internally I was doing the opening few steps of a victory dance. There was no mistaking Potter's state for anything other than distinct intoxication. I decided to wait a little longer before acting, just to be sure that there could be no lucky escape for him, but as soon as the clock in the corner chimed once to signal the half hour, it would be time to bring Potter's gross misconduct to Professor Snape's attention. The perfect plan was proceeding, well, _perfectly_.

"And like me?" I asked, once I was sure Potter had finished rambling. It seemed like the simplest way to fill the remaining few minutes would be to spark him off onto a long rant about the dire faults of Draco Malfoy. It seemed to be a favourite topic of his, and it wasn’t as though my ego was so weak as to be at all injured by his ineffective blows.

"Like you?" Potter paused for a moment to ponder the question before answering. "You're not _really_ a bad guy, though, are you? Not like your father. You don't go 'round killing people." He smiled brightly. "Or drinking the blood of virgins."

I frowned. "I _might_ do," I protested, not at all sure I liked the way this particular rant of Potter’s was heading.

He laughed. "'Course you don't. Just because your dad's a prat and you're mean to me, that doesn’t make you an axe murderer."

"No?" I couldn't help but feel a little disappointed. Sure, Potter was _right_ , but that was hardly the point. It was true that I hadn’t yet decided to follow in my father’s footsteps, especially now that the Death Eaters seemed mostly to be concerned with covering up the worst of their actions during the war, but I hadn’t completely discarded the option, either. And I’d always hoped that the other students at Hogwarts—especially the one sitting across from me at that moment—lived in fear of me becoming a sort of Dark Lord the Second.

"I'm not scared of you," Potter said, putting paid to that idea. Behind those stupid glasses of his, Potter's eyes were huge with amusement. "Don't hate you, either."

My own eyes widened alarmingly at that statement. "You what?" I asked, hoping that I had simply mistranslated his run-together words.

"Don't hate you." Potter shrugged dramatically. "I know you're meant to be my enemy and all, but I don't. I think you're nice."

"Nice?" I was horrified. Torture or death would surely be better than being called 'nice' by Harry Potter.

"Well." He frowned. "Not nice as in _nice_ , obviously."

"I'm glad you've cleared that up," I muttered.

"No, not that kind of nice," Potter continued, unruffled. "Nice as in..." He paused and placed one finger to his bottom lip in an exaggerated pose of deep thought. "Nice as in kind of hot," he said finally, the words accompanied by a look of intense satisfaction at having found the right term.

I was so astounded that it took several minutes for the full meaning of Potter's statement to completely infiltrate my brain. Even once I felt sure that I had heard him correctly, it took me some time to gather my thoughts enough to speak.

"Hot?" I finally managed to splutter.

Potter shrugged. "Yeah. You know. Sexy." Eyes widening, he clapped a hand over his mouth. "Uh-oh," he said, his voice muffled as it seeped through his fingers. "I shouldn't have told you that, should I?"

"Don't worry, you won't remember it tomorrow," I muttered under my breath, feeling almost as though I were the one who was intoxicated.

It was all just too bizarre to comprehend. After spending six years of playing the role of mortal enemy quite convincingly, it was quiet staggering to think that Potter actually thought that I was _hot_. It wasn’t that the sentiment itself was alien to me—it wouldn’t have surprised me if everyone else at Hogwarts was of a similar opinion—but it was still a little jarring to hear such an admission coming from Potter of all people. He was, after all, usually more inclined towards insults. This new revelation was difficult for me to process. Especially on the very day that I had planned to have Potter removed from my life for good.

"Forget I said anything," he said.

"Okay," I replied, but I knew that it would be near-impossible for me to do so.

"Perhaps we should just write this essay."

I nodded. "Okay," I said again, barely registering his words.

The clock chimed.

Now was the moment that I had been waiting for throughout my entire Hogwarts career. A short walk to Snape's office and a few well-rehearsed words later, Potter would be erased from my life without so much as a final goodbye sneer. The thought was actually quite overwhelming now that the hour had finally arrived. I felt triumphant, self-satisfied... and strangely conflicted.

I glanced across the table at Potter, who was frowning down at an unfurled scroll, trying to make out the cryptic cipher of its upside-down words. His glasses had fallen almost halfway down his nose, leaving his eyes at the mercy of the long chunks of fringe that almost obscured them. As I watched, he bit his bottom lip, frowning with the effort of deep concentration and making him look several years younger.

Staring at him like that, it seemed quite strange to imagine what it would be like at Hogwarts without Potter to plot against and torment. In the last six years, he'd become almost as much a part of my life as the classes and buildings themselves. It was a peculiar thought.

"I'm just going to get some more butterbeer," I said quickly, rising from my chair and heading out of the room to fetch Snape before I could be swayed by any foolishly sentimental second thoughts. Once out in the hall, however, my moment of resolution faltered and I sank back against the wall, staring into space as though it might offer me some answer.

"I can't do this," I muttered sadly. "I can't."

Shaking my head at my own idiocy, I turned and headed back into the Slytherin common room, beginning to wonder whether the term 'nice' had been such a mistake after all.

"That was quick," Potter observed, then looked surprised upon raising his gaze to find me standing in front of him empty handed.

"I didn't go anywhere." Feeling a little ill and more than a little ashamed of myself, I explained. "I actually meant to find Snape. I lied about getting the butterbeer, I lied about the essay and although I was telling the truth about the biscuits, I'd already spiked your drink. I’d planned to get you expelled—and it would’ve worked this time, I know it would—but for some _stupid_ reason, I can't go through with it."

"Oh." Potter didn't look particularly grateful.

"Well?" I prompted. "Aren't you going to tell me what a failure I am? You might as well get it over and done with. Go on, Potter. Have a little gloat."

"No, thanks." His face was surprisingly unreadable for one so deeply intoxicated.

"No?" I frowned.

"No." Potter shook his head for emphasis. "So there's no essay after all?"

I shook my own head in silent denial, unsure what to make of his manner.

"I guess I'd better go get a start on the rest of my homework, then."

Potter's air of hurt dignity lasted only until his first attempt at standing. Rising quickly—too quickly, as it turned out—he soon found himself sprawled on top of the table. "Ow," he remarked mildly, before straightening his glasses and making a second, equally unsuccessful, attempt.

"Here, wait a minute." I moved to the other side of the table, grabbing his arm and slowly pulling him to his feet. "If any of the teachers see you stumbling around like that, you'll be expelled anyway."

He gathered his books into a clumsy pile in his arms. "I'll be okay," he protested, just as the two largest tomes tumbled to the floor with a crash.

I made a snap decision. "I'll come with you." I picked up the books, tucking them under one arm so that the other remained free to guide Potter, should the need arise. Opening the common room door, I gestured him through. "Try to be quiet," I directed. "And if we run into Snape, _don't talk_."

Potter nodded his understanding, walking for a moment in silence before asking in a stage whisper, "Why are you doing this?"

"What?" I whispered back and then, feeling like an idiot, repeated the question in a normal voice.

"Helping me. Backing out of having me expelled. Being... nice."

There was that word again. "I don't know," I answered honestly. "Perhaps I'm getting sick. I do feel a little feverish."

He smiled evilly. "Maybe _you_ don't hate _me_ either," he suggested.

I smiled myself, shaking my head. "I’m not _that_ sick."

We made our way through the silent and shadowed corridors until we finally found ourselves climbing the stairs of the Gryffindor tower. Over the last few hundred yards, Potter's feet had grown more and more uncooperative and, by the time we arrived at the portrait of the Fat Lady, he was leaning quite heavily on the arm I had offered him.

"Password!" the Fat Lady demanded.

"Peckled Hirrings," Potter replied confidently.

"Wrong!" The entrance in front of us remained firmly closed.

Placing a hand over Potter's mouth as he opened it to protest, I quickly translated his response. "Pickled Herrings."

The door slid open and I dragged Potter inside, ignoring the curious glances of the handful of Gryffindors sitting in the common room. "Where's your room?" I asked, hurriedly steering Potter in the correct direction as soon as he'd pointed the way.

We mounted the stairs with some difficulty, and made it into Potter's dormitory without any greater mishap than a few potential bruises on his behalf, courtesy of a close encounter with one of the hard stone walls. The bedroom was not empty, however. As I untangled myself from Potter's grasp, I looked up to find Ron Weasley gazing at me in undisguised astonishment.

"What's wrong, Weasley?" I snarled. "Never seen your friend drunk before?"

He blinked. "Uh, no, actually," he replied, looking rather perplexed.

I glared at him for a moment longer before turning to Potter. "You'd better get undressed and go to bed right away if you want to be up to your Quidditch practice tomorrow."

Potter nodded, and immediately began to pull his ugly jumper over his head.

Quickly looking away, I turned back to Weasley. "Make sure he has a drink of water before he goes to sleep, and have a glass waiting for him when he wakes up. _Don't_ let him go wandering about downstairs; if a teacher catches him, he'll be out of here before dawn. If anyone asks, he's gone to bed early with a headache." I smiled evilly. "Merlin knows, it'll be true enough come morning."

Weasley opened his mouth as if to reply, but I silenced him with a wave of the hand before returning my attention to Potter. "Eat something greasy if you feel ill in the mor..." My voice trailed off as he undid the last of his buttons and removed his shirt.

"Greasy?" Potter asked dubiously, his eyes wide behind his glasses.

"Mm-huh," I nodded, all of a sudden feeling rather light-headed myself.

"Okay." He smiled brilliantly. "Thanks. You know, for getting sick."

It took a moment for me to register what he was saying. "Oh!" I finally exclaimed, managing a small smile before realising it would do nothing for my already injured reputation. "Just don't count on it in the future," I said tightly, then turned away before the dizziness could get any worse.

I gave Weasley a final glare before heading to the door. "Bye," I said quietly, not daring to look back. If Potter replied, I was already too far down the staircase to hear, or too deep in thought to notice.

As I made my way back down to the Slytherin dungeons, I couldn't help but replay the evening in my mind, trying to work out how everything had gone so horribly wrong. After all, it had seemed like the perfect plan. And it _had_ been perfect, both in theory and execution. That is, right up until the moment when I had gone stark raving mad.

The inference was unavoidable. It wasn't my plan that was flawed; it was me.

I shook my head. No, that was the sickness talking. This, like everything else, was Potter’s fault. Eventually, I would formulate a new plan. A better plan. And, no matter what Potter chose to call me, I would be victorious in the end.


	3. The Weight of Lineage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was first written long before Draco's birthday was revealed by JKR, hence this divergence from canon :)

In the wizarding world, one’s 17th birthday is considered the point of adulthood. How exactly a person is supposed to go from child to adult merely by waking up to a new day is something that has always escaped me. Three days before my 17th birthday, I didn’t feel as though some great transformation was imminent. If anything, the events of the summer had wrought that change in me—the deaths of my friends’ parents, the sputtering conclusion to the war, and the end of my relationship with Pansy. If adulthood meant moving on from the trappings of childhood then, for me, those were already gone.

With my birthday drawing near, I should have been beginning to feel excited by the upcoming event. While birthdays never quite hold the same magic once you hit your teens, they still ensure that you are the centre of attention for a day, and that is something that I will never grow tired of. Historically, my birthdays had been accompanied by teetering piles of presents, both from my parents and from my friends, but my 17th birthday was to bring an additional honour. My portrait was to be painted and, for the first time, my likeness would be added to the ancestral gallery on the first floor of my family home, joining the gilt-framed oils of generations of Malfoy men.

However, such an honour came with several heavy responsibilities. I would be required always to contribute to the glory of the Malfoy name. Any action that could be seen as bringing shame upon my family would be censured; instead, I would be expected to contribute to our continued growth in reputation, influence and power.

It was rather a loaded little painting once I stopped to think about it. And, three days before my birthday, I was thinking about it a lot. My growing feeling of discomfort had only been amplified by my recent failure to eject Harry Potter from Hogwarts and, in turn, my life. If I had been successful in having Potter expelled, I would have been able to take my place in the Malfoy history books without so much as a single thought about whether I was worthy to do so. Instead, defeated by what I could only assume was an untimely appearance of a nascent conscience, I found myself beginning to bow under the weight of my Malfoy lineage. As remarkable a person as I was, for the first time in my life, I began to wonder whether my accomplishments would ever really be enough. My marks were good and I was popular with my housemates, but such minor things dulled in comparison to the feats of my forefathers. Potter’s expulsion would have gone a long way to close the gap.

He and his intoxicated revelations had a lot to answer for.

 

*

 

"I love being 17," Goyle avowed with all the enthusiasm of someone who had only recently learned to count up to that number. "It's great."

"Why?" I looked at him, one eyebrow raised in query, as I tried to ignore the clamour of overlapping conversations that echoed from the walls of the Great Hall.

"What do you mean?"

"Why is being 17 so great?" I clarified. Sometimes my friends needed to have things spelled out.

Normally, I tried not to tax Crabbe’s and Goyle’s brains too much, fearful of what damage overexertion might wreak. But, with my birthday less than half a week away, I was in a belligerent mood and had little interest in cossetting the fragile workings of my friends’ minds. At worst, a trip to the Hospital Wing would provide a much-needed distraction from the knowledge that Harry Potter was still very much at Hogwarts—and that this tragedy was still very much my fault.

The sound of his laugh rose above the din of our peers, just to rub it in.

“Why’s it great?” Goyle repeated dumbly.

"You can buy cigarettes," Crabbe contributed.

"I don’t smoke,” I said. “And neither do you, for that matter.”

“There was that one time,” he protested.

“Grass clippings don’t count. Besides, you can buy cigarettes when you’re 16, so your argument is invalid.”

“You’re a grown-up once you turn 17,” Goyle offered.

I took in the brown sauce spatters on his shirt and the eggshell confetti in his hair. Adulthood had never looked so sticky. “Hm. That’s hardly a big deal, though, is it? We’re still stuck in school until the middle of next year.”

“School sucks,” Crabbe said helpfully.

“Well?” I prompted them. “Is there anything else ‘great’ about being 17, or am I actually destined for a year much the same as any other?”

"What about that picture you told us about?" Goyle asked, his brow deeply furrowed from the effort of thought. "That sounded like fun."

"It's called a portrait," I corrected, "and sitting around for hours while some famous artist or another stares at you is most definitely _not_ fun." I sighed deeply, dropping my head down onto my folded arms. "Especially not this time," I muttered into the fabric of my robes.

"I think it sounds like fun," Crabbe argued, completely oblivious to the agony of my quarter-life crisis. "When I'm master of Crabbe Hall, I'm going to have _seven_ ancestral galleries, all filled with hundreds of paintings of me."

"They won't be ancestral galleries if there are only portraits of you in them," I said, raising my head to explain.

Crabbe looked at me blankly **.** When I turned to Goyle, he seemed to be in the process of attempting to touch his tongue to his ear. I gave up. There wasn't any point in trying to educate the brainless. I should’ve known better after years of their dim-witted but loyal friendship.

"I'll have Father recommend a good artist," I said instead.

Crabbe grinned. "Mint."

"Why are you so worried about turning 17, anyway?" Goyle asked.

So they _had_ noticed that something was playing on my mind. I was almost impressed.

"I'm not _worried_ ," I argued, feeling that the word came a little too close to 'scared' to be allowed to stand. "I just don't see what the big deal is, that's all."

"Big deal?" Goyle frowned. "I don’t remember saying that."

I sighed again, not sure this time whether it was due to my own circumstances or my friends' eternal inanity. "No, you didn't. But my father seems to think it is. Apparently, it's a _very_ big deal for the Malfoys, if not for anyone else."

"Why?" Crabbe looked genuinely interested in my answer.

"By the age of 17, most of my ancestors had already begun to do great things," I explained. "My grandfather was unofficial head of Slytherin house and my great grandfather had already been included in the _Wizard's Book of Villains_ for setting fire to the Gryffindor tower and a good number of the students in it.”

"Wow," Crabbe breathed. "I wish _I_ had thought of that."

"He was expelled, of course," I clarified. "But not before a most spectacular display of fireworks. The way Father tells it, it was so bright that everyone there was blinded for several days."

"What about your father?" Goyle looked up from the naked women he had been drawing in the margins of his Herbology textbook. "Your dad’s so cool. I bet he'd done some fantastic stuff by the time he turned 17."

"You could say that." My stomach churned a little at the thought of all of the boastful stories that I had been told for as long as I could remember. Some toddlers were lucky enough to have their fathers read to them from books of fairy tales. My father would recite the Malfoy genealogy and regale me with stories of his own amazing deeds.

"Like what?" Crabbe demanded, always ready for a little hero-worship where my father was concerned. I suppose it was only to be expected, given that his own father was dimmer even than Crabbe himself.

"His greatest achievement while at Hogwarts," I relayed unenthusiastically, "was the time that he managed to have over a third of Gryffindor house expelled."

Goyle and Crabbe gaped unattractively at me.

"How?" asked the former, his eyes wide with awe.

"I'm not exactly sure," I admitted. "He never really goes into the details of that particular story. But from what I’ve pieced together, I think it had something to do with shrinking potions, the Sorting Hat, and Professor McGonagall's underwear."

"Wow," Goyle muttered, visibly impressed. "She must be really old."

"That's not exactly the point, though, is it?" I snapped.

The other two looked at each other, baffled.

In the end, I had pity on them. "The point," I explained, "is that every other Malfoy had achieved something significant by his 17th birthday. It's almost like a family tradition, something that cements your place in Malfoy history."

"So?" Crabbe prompted.

" _So_ , where do _I_ fit into that?" Leaning back in my chair, I looked at each of them in turn. "What are my significant achievements?"

My so-called friends continued to look perplexed.

"Exactly," I muttered sadly, my very first slump into self-doubt now entirely complete. "Exactly."

Turning away from their veritable glut of reassuring comments, which were taking the form of unbroken silence, I found myself looking straight into the curious eyes of Harry Potter. Apparently, something in the universe had decided that my lack of accomplishments was not punishment enough. Sitting only one table away from us, Potter must have heard every single soul-baring word.

Brilliant.

I glared at him and he blinked several times in quick succession, as though startled by my anger. That was typical of him, assuming he had every right to eavesdrop on other people’s conversations, just because he’d managed to stay alive a couple of times. I was inflicted with his best wounded orphan expression for several more seconds before something even more alarming happened. His hurt look faded away and was replaced by a tentative smile.

I intensified my glare for a moment before finding that I had to look away. I didn’t want to witness the moment that Potter’s smile became a laugh. With my newfound insecurity weighing upon me like molten lead, the last thing I needed was to be the object of his mirth.

I was going to be 17 in three days’ time, and I didn’t have an impressive string of great achievements for future generations of Malfoys to marvel at and follow. What I had was Harry Potter.

I buried my head in my arms and groaned.

 

*

 

On the morning of my birthday, I awoke to find the usual vast mound of presents at the foot of my bed. The other boys in my dormitory—Crabbe, Goyle, arrogant Blaise Zabini and loner Theodore Nott—were already awake and staring at me in anticipation, whether to judge my reaction to their own gifts or simply to gain some sort of vicarious pleasure from my present-opening experience.

"Happy birthday, Draco," Goyle said too brightly for the early hour, and the others quickly echoed the sentiment.

"I think I might go back to sleep," I muttered. "Wake me when it's tomorrow."

"You can’t go back to sleep," Crabbe chastened me. "You have presents. Lots of presents, and some of them make weird noises when you shake them. If you don’t get up and open them, we'll do it for you."

For a moment, I considered telling them to do just that, but the thought of Zabini pawing through my presents was far too displeasing to allow it. Better to face my birthday than to allow him to get his grasping fingers on my things. "It's okay," I said quickly. "I'll do it."

In the end, it wasn’t really worth the bother. When you had absolutely everything you could possibly want already—and when a quick owl to your parents would have soon produced anything else—birthdays and other gift-receiving occasions started to lose their excitement. I managed to garner a small amount of amusement from Crabbe and Goyle's joint present of a Harry Potter dartboard (thanks to Goyle’s drawing talent, the artistic resemblance was striking), but otherwise there was little in my present pile that held my attention for long.

It was only when I was changing into my robes ready for breakfast that I noticed a small silver envelope on the floor beside my bed. It must have been lost in the mountain of discarded wrapping paper that covered every nearby surface. Picking it up, I immediately recognised my father's handwriting.

"Perfect," I muttered out loud, my mood dropping several notches in a matter of seconds. "He's probably remembered another amazing childhood feat to tell me about in great detail."

I forced myself to open the envelope, revealing a surprisingly small piece of paper. It didn’t look large enough to contain an entire anecdote, but my father could be extremely concise at times.

"What's that?" Crabbe demanded, reappearing from the bathroom with so much toothpaste surrounding his mouth that it looked like he had grown a white, foamy beard. "Another present?"

"Not exactly." Sighing, I read the note out loud: "Draco. You have a portrait sitting arranged for tonight at 15 minutes past seven in the Hogwarts front reception room. Try to look neat for a change. Lucius Malfoy."

Crumpling the parchment into a small ball, I threw it petulantly into the far corner of the room. "No happy birthday or anything, you note," I grumbled. "And my father must be the only parent in the entire world who signs a note to his son with his full legal name."

"Can we come along to watch you being painted this evening?" Crabbe asked, oblivious as always to all but the most irrelevant points of my conversation.

"What's there to watch?" I snapped. "I'll be sitting in a chair doing absolutely nothing for hours on end.”

"So?"

I stared incredulously at him for several seconds before giving up and shrugging my shoulders. "Sure," I replied, shaking my head. "You may watch if you promise not to get in the way."

Buoyed by the prospect of an exciting evening, Crabbe headed happily back to the bathroom, hopefully to wash the foam off his face.

"Try to look neat," I repeated under my breath as I knotted my Slytherin tie around my neck, almost choking myself when my temper caused me to yank the material a little too vigorously. "I _always_ look neat. What he _really_ wanted to say was 'try to look like a _Malfoy_ for a change'."

 _How am I supposed to do_ that _?_ I wondered, frowning deeply as I moved over to stare at my reflection in the mirror. I attempted to stretch my frown into a belligerent glare, but somehow ended up looking more like a sex offender than my father on the warpath.

Giving up, I let my face return to its normal, resting expression, leaning in slightly so that I could study myself more closely. _I don't see what the problem is,_ I mused. _I certainly look a lot better than_ he _did at my age. The fashions back then were atrocious._ Admittedly, my un-brushed hair was still in an advanced stage of bed-head but, apart from that, I looked very near to perfect. My skin was clear, my teeth were good, and Pansy had always said that I had very arresting eyes.

Turning to examine my face in profile and then looking straight ahead, I tried out a few of my most useful expressions, wondering which I should choose for the portrait. It would hang in my family gallery for centuries; I didn’t want to look like an idiot or, worse still, like someone _nice_.

"Should I go for haughty or devious?" I called out, deciding that I needed a second opinion. "Or perhaps I could try out my latest scowl..."

This time all four of my roommates appeared at the door.

"Definitely devious," Goyle said firmly.

The others nodded their assent.

"That smirk you do really works wonders with the chicks," Crabbe said. “You should do it more often.”

I rolled my eyes. "There are more important things in life than girls," I replied disparagingly, pulling myself away from my reflection and beginning the search for my hairbrush amongst all the presents.

"Like what?" Zabini demanded.

"Like getting down to breakfast before those sixth year gorillas eat all the toast." Finally locating the brush, I headed into the bathroom without another word. Once alone, however, I allowed my bright expression to fall. “And like not disappointing your father,” I added under my breath.

 

*

 

I arrived at breakfast to a chorus of happy birthdays from my housemates. The first years were especially vocal, probably in the hope of gaining my friendship and setting themselves up for a sterling Hogwarts career. Smiling beatifically, I waved off my well-wishers and took my usual seat at the head of the table, secretly adoring every moment of the attention.

Halfway through breakfast, a loud flapping of wings alerted me to the arrival of two harried-looking owls, who were carrying a large package between them and struggling to match their pace.

"Bit early for mail, isn't it?" commented Millicent Bulstrode, talking through a mouthful of scrambled eggs.

I shrugged, uninterested, and returned my attention to my own breakfast, scooping a large helping of marmalade out of the jar in front of me and spreading it on a slice of toast. I was about to reach for my water glass when the owls took a sharp right turn and headed straight for me, releasing the package from several feet above the table so that it thudded into the wood surface with a force that rattled the china and knocked over several drinks. The owls seemed to give each other a look of relief before disappearing back out through the double doors at the end of the Great Hall.

"Looks like it’s for you, Draco," Crabbe said, prodding it with one jam-covered finger.

"I suppose so," I replied generously, restraining the urge to beat him about the head with the package for feeling the need to state the bloody obvious and dirty my gift while doing so.

My toast forgotten, I pushed aside my plate so that I could draw the parcel closer. It was wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with a thin silver ribbon, its boxy shape giving nothing away. Aware of my audience, I took my time with the knot, carefully removing the ribbon and placing it to one side before moving onto the paper. It tore away easily, revealing a thick book bound in soft green leather.

"Who’s it from?" Goyle demanded.

“There’s no card,” I said, checking the discarded paper for anything I might have missed.

“What is it, then?” he persisted.

"I don't know yet, do I?" I muttered distractedly. Frowning, I opened the book to the first page and read the hand-written title aloud. " _A Book of Malfoys_ "

 _What does_ that _mean?_ I wondered. I received my answer when I turned another couple of pages to find myself looking at an old-fashioned portrait of Sextus Malfoy, best friend and brother-in-law of Salazar Slytherin himself and one of my earliest known ancestors.

"It seems to be some kind of Malfoy family tree," I said out loud. “It’s probably from my father.”

My friends all looked a little disappointed, having probably expected something more exciting after the noise of the gift’s arrival.

"What good is that?" Crabbe asked bluntly. "Doesn’t sound like much of a birthday present to me."

Frowning, I ignored him in favour of examining the pages in front of me in greater detail. The portrait was centred on the left leaf, surrounded by blank space. The top half of the opposite page held the usual boring details one found in any pureblood genealogy: date of birth, date deceased, marriage details and total value of estate. The lower half, however, was unlike anything I’d read in my father’s library. Written in a conversational tone, it seemed to be an account of Sextus’s life up to the age of 17.

I had a feeling the cut-off point was no mere coincidence.

Turning the page, I saw that the same pattern had been followed for Sextus’s son, and then for his son's eldest son. A quick flick through the rest of the tome revealed that the entire book was written to the same formula. In short, it was a page-by-page account of all of the wonderful, amazing, unforgettable things that every single one of my ancestors had achieved before the day of their 17th birthday. It was a leather-bound catalogue of reasons why I was a disappointment to the Malfoy name.

There was the story of my great grandfather’s expulsion, complete with a transcript of the Ministry report, while the exploits of Quintus Malfoy, the infamous teenage practical joker, were so numerous that his page had been written in a script so small that I could barely make out the words. There was even the legendary tale of one early Malfoy—the original Draco, after whom I had been named—whose dream of an estate to rival even the Golden House of Nero had led to the construction of Malfoy Manor, my home and future inheritance.

Whoever had collected and collated the information had certainly done a very thorough job of it. If the topic had been one more pleasing to me, I would likely have been delighted by the gift. As it was, however, every word contained within the book's pages served only to emphasise my own lack of achievements. It was little more than a bitter reminder that, despite my intelligence and good looks, I was the only 17-year-old Malfoy who _couldn’t_ fill a page with a list of my dastardly deeds.

 _Who the hell would send me a thing like this?_ I wondered angrily, my eyes flickering over the faces of my housemates. _Even Father wouldn’t stoop this low._ I took in Crabbe’s jam-stained face and Millicent’s open-mouthed chewing and realised that most of my friends were incapable of the kind of sustained research that the book would have required. Pansy might have done it once, but to go to that much effort now would have been an admission that she still had feelings for me, and she was far too proud for that. I couldn’t imagine that any of the Slytherins were behind the present.

“Can I have a look once you’re finished?” Goyle asked, blind to my animosity toward the gift. “Old pictures make me laugh.”

"Sure," I muttered, still trying to work out who had sent me the gift. It had to be someone capable of focused study, who bore a grudge against me for some reason. Perhaps someone I had bested at Quidditch or a girl whose advances I had declined. But that wasn’t enough, I realised. The book’s author had to know that I felt like I hadn’t done enough to warrant inclusion in that list of Malfoy names. And the only people who knew that were Crabbe and Goyle…

…and Harry Potter.

Suddenly everything made perfect sense.

Fuming, I shoved my chair back from the table, slamming the book closed and tucking it under one arm. Standing, I looked around for the target of my fury and quickly spotted him about halfway down the length of the Gryffindor table, watching me from under his fringe whilst trying to appear spellbound by a bowl of cereal. Wasting no time thinking up a plan of attack that would only be ruined by my desire to throttle him half to death, I quickly made my way over to where Potter sat, dropping the book unceremoniously in his lap.

"I presume _you're_ responsible for this?"

Potter nodded sheepishly, and instantly most of the Gryffindors within about ten metres of him decided that they were full, pushing their breakfast plates aside and quickly making for the door. Weasley and Granger lingered a little longer than their housemates, but a prize winning glare in Weasley's direction and a lascivious wink in Granger's soon saw them deciding that they were also due elsewhere, shooting Potter apologetic glances on their way to the exit.

Taking the seat to Potter's right (which was still disconcertingly warm from Weasley's nether regions), I treated him to my most terrifying scowl. "I suppose this is your idea of revenge for what happened the other week."

He looked confused. "Is there something wrong with your mouth?"

Reverting to a more subtle glare, I tried again. "Look, I know I tried to have you expelled—"

"Again," Potter interjected.

" _Again_ ," I allowed, "but this is really playing dirty! I mean, eavesdropping on my private conversation was bad enough, but actually using what you heard against me? That’s really low, even for a Gryffindor.”

Admittedly, there was a part of me that came close to feeling a begrudging respect for the architect of such a callous scheme. If it had been the work of anyone else—and _aimed_ at anyone else—I may have been impressed. I wasn’t about to admit that to Potter, however. He already had more than enough to crow about without any praise from me.

"Does that mean you don't like it?" Potter asked slowly.

I couldn't decide whether to hit him then and there or wait until some appropriate moment in a dark, abandoned hallway where I could do the job properly. "Of course I don't like it!" I spluttered. "You've taken my insecurities and thrown them in my face." Frowning, I quickly corrected myself. "Not that I _have_ any insecurities. Not really. Just a few minor issues related to the current date.”

Potter actually had the nerve to smile. "Happy birthday, by the way."

"Thanks a bloody lot."

"Now," he went on, ignoring me, "do you want to explain exactly what it is about your present that makes me such a terrible person?"

" _Existing_ makes you a terrible person," I muttered petulantly, but decided I might as well oblige him. "Beyond that," I said in the kind of tone I usually reserved for toddlers, house-elves and Hufflepuffs, "what you've done is catalogue all of the amazing achievements of my ancestors just so I can have a handy reference to consult whenever I want to feel particularly unaccomplished."

Potter frowned. "I don't think you've read the whole thing yet," he said carefully.

“Why on earth would I want to?”

"Maybe you should." He shrugged, his expression oddly apologetic. "It's not _all_ evil deeds and enormous fortunes, you know. I don’t suppose they’re the stories that get passed down through the generations, but some of your ancestors were actually pretty hopeless.”

I stared incredulously at him for a moment before remembering my anger. “So there were a couple of embarrassments,” I said, waving a hand dismissively. “I’m willing to bet, though, that for every one of _those_ Malfoys there are about a hundred like my father.” I could hear a taint of bitterness creeping into my words. “Absolutely perfect in every way.”

"Your father?" Potter looked amused. "I think you should definitely read _his_ page."

He deftly opened the book and flicked through the pages until he came to one towards the back. As he flattened the book out in front of me, the familiar face of my father came into view. Not really in the mood for yet another retelling of Lucius Malfoy's greatest hits, I nonetheless leaned in to read the text, realising that Potter would continue to annoy me until I did so.

Clearing my throat, I began to read aloud. "Known for the time he accidentally transfigured his _own_ homework into a dung beetle, instead of that of Frank Longbottom, Lucius Malfoy..." I paused, frowning, and turned my gaze back to Potter. “I think you’ve made a mistake,” I said. “Got things the wrong way around.”

He shook his head. "Afraid not. I had Hermione double check all the facts for me. I only included stories with reliable sources."

My frown deepened as I returned my concentration to the page in front of me. As Potter had presented it, my father's teenage years read like a catalogue of blunders and humiliations. There was even a vague suggestion that he may have had a soft spot for Arthur Weasley, of all people.

"Ew," I couldn't help but comment as I came to that section of the text.

"Ron thought so too," Potter remarked. “He didn’t want me to include it.”

Skimming over the last few sentences, I pushed the book away before turning to glare at Potter. "You made that up," I said.

“It’s all true,” he replied. “I even asked Dumbledore about the pig.”

“Then you’ve left the important things out,” I said. “What about the time he managed to get a third of Gryffindor expelled in one go? That’s more important than a transfiguration mishap.”

"It’s not in there because it never happened. The only person to be expelled around that time was Hagrid. If you don't believe me, it's all in the library."

"Bastard!” I exclaimed.

Potter looked hurt. "Thanks."

"Not you; my father," I snapped. "Telling me all those stories about how brilliant he was at school, when really all he accomplished was getting into Arthur Weasley's pants! I may not have achieved anything worthy of recording in a book of Malfoys, but at least I've never had the hots for Ron Weasley."

"Too male?” Potter teased.

"Too poor, more like." For a brief moment, I almost managed a smile.

Potter looked at his watch. "I'm going to be late for Herbology if I don't leave right now. But," he continued, his face colouring, "you might want to read the next page before you start talking about your lack of achievements." Smiling stiffly, he got up from his seat. "Happy birthday," he said again, before practically running to the door.

 _What the hell is he on about?_ I wondered as I turned the page.

I recoiled a little at the unexpected sight of a sneering photo of myself decorating the left side of a two-page spread. Leaning back in, I recognised it as one of my school photos from the previous year. I wondered briefly how Potter had managed to get his hands on a copy before deciding that I didn’t really care. I was far more interested in the rows of messy handwriting that covered the right-hand page.

I had expected a list of disappointments, a way for Potter to have his revenge, but as I began to read, I quickly realised that I had been wrong. I pulled the book closer, and skimmed through the text with mounting confusion

“Top of his Potions class for three years running... “

“Best Slytherin Seeker for over a century...”

“Highly respected by his housemates…”

Phrase after phrase jumped out at me, all positive—at least if you looked at it from a Malfoy perspective. (In my family, "self-centred to the point of insanity" is a high complement.)

The more I read, the more difficult I found it to believe that Potter had been the author. It was too flattering, too reassuring, to be the work of my enemy. When I reached the bottom of the page, however, I realised that no one else could have penned the words. The final point was an unmistakeable account of the time I had engineered the perfect plot to have my nemesis expelled, only to have my brilliant plan thwarted by illness at the last minute. Only Potter could have known about that particular incident, and only Potter would have the nerve to finish the account with the comment “also irritatingly hot, especially when those around him have been drugged”.

 _No wonder he was blushing,_ I thought.

Closing the book, I pushed it away and just stared at it for a long time, trying to work out what to make of Potter’s gift. It just didn’t make sense. Why would he of all people give me something so thoughtful? Unless…

"Bastard!" I said again, and this time Potter _was_ the target of my ire.

 

*

 

After convincing a terrified first year to tell me the password, it was surprisingly easy to sneak into the Gryffindor tower and to ensure that I was already in Potter’s dormitory waiting for him when he arrived back after his morning’s classes. Although he was obviously surprised to find me sitting on his bed, leafing through his suspiciously new-looking Potions textbook, he recovered quickly after the first few seconds of confused silence.

"You're making a habit of visiting my bedroom," he joked, although his smile was a little strained.

Ignoring him, I cast the textbook aside. Rising gracefully to my feet, I looked him in the eye. "I know why you did it," I said triumphantly. "You wanted to make me feel guilty for trying to get you expelled, didn’t you?”

"Er, no, actually," Potter replied.

I frowned. "Why, then? What's the ulterior motive?"

He shrugged. "There isn't one."

"There _must_ be!" I protested. "You can't just be nice to me for no reason at all."

"Your birthday’s a reason, isn’t it?" Potter argued.

I shook my head, unwilling to give in.

An evil grin formed on his face. "What about a get well present, then?"

"Bastard," I said for the third time that day.

"Coming from a Slytherin, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

"It wasn’t meant that way," I grumbled.

Still smiling, he nodded towards the door. "Now, if you’re finished calling me names, you’d better get out of here before one of the professors catches you in the Gryffindor dormitories. That’s the kind of scandal that would demand a second edition of the book. Which,” he added, “is a birthday present, nothing more.”

I wasn’t satisfied with his explanation, but I knew I had heard all that Potter was willing to say. Frowning, I took his advice and made my way towards the door.

“Oh, and Draco?”

Surprised by his use of my first name, I turned to see Potter smiling shyly at me. "What?"

"Happy 17th birthday."

Thoroughly confused, I shook my head and left.


	4. The Tarnished Snitch

There was something almost pleasurable in the feeling of sickly anticipation that flooded my body as I stood waiting for the moment of Slytherin’s entrance, my broomstick tucked under one arm. It was always that way: my skin would quiver with trepidation and excitement, my pulse would pound, and my ears would ring with the cheers of our expectant fans. Quidditch was a kind of drug for me. The attention, the applause, the speed and the sheer exhilaration of the final chase had long ago become addictive.

Of course, all drugs had their side effects, and Quidditch had Harry Potter.

For six years, I had been forced to hear about his talent. The constant wittering about his Quidditch prowess would take a toll on anyone, but as a rival Seeker, it was particularly grating. It didn’t matter that I had an excellent record myself, as captain of the Slytherin team and architect of countless wins over Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. Circumstances had conspired against me, time and time again, and I was yet to beat Potter to the Golden Snitch. Against every other Seeker, I was unbeaten. Against Harry Potter, I wasn’t even on the board. And every time I saw his fingers close around that small winged ball, my hatred for him grew.

His recent crusade to win me over, if that was what you could call it, mattered little in the face of such deep-seated resentment. I found his behaviour surprising, especially in light of his previous hostility, but couldn’t really blame him if he had succumbed to my considerable charms. After all, I was witty, intelligent and, in Potter’s own words, hot. The only truly shocking thing was that it had taken him so long to realise it.

As for my birthday present, well, there was no reason why I couldn’t keep it and still hate Potter’s guts. It was true that I read my own page daily and regularly thumbed through the rest, but that had no bearing on my feelings for its creator. If anything, it increased my antipathy. It was irritating that my archenemy knew me so well, that of all the mindless gifts that I had received, the one that really mattered came from the person I most wanted to forget.

While the rampant culture of Potter worship at Hogwarts made that impossible, it was a little easier to push him from my mind after a week without any direct contact. I still saw him in class, of course, and occasionally caught a glimpse of his face on the other side of the Great Hall, but he had made no effort to speak to me after my visit to his dorm. The distance was welcome; it allowed me to dismiss my own recent behaviour as a brief aberration and focus on more important things. Like Quidditch. And not losing to Gryffindor yet again.

The noise of the crowd grew louder, suggesting that our entry would soon be announced. I gestured for the rest of the Slytherin team to huddle closer. Although I was the shortest and slightest player by far, dwarfed by the likes of Crabbe and Goyle, they formed a circle around me without pause, respecting me both as their captain and as the informal head of our house.

“I know I say this before every game,” I began, turning slowly so that I could look each of them in the eye, “but we have to win this afternoon. Gryffindor scored a massive victory against Hufflepuff in their last match, so a win today would give them an almost insurmountable lead. We don’t want to be chasing them for the rest of the year.”

One of the Chasers, a broad-shouldered fifth year by the name of Hart, gingerly spoke up. “For us to win, you really need to catch the Snitch.” He looked away, scuffing his Quidditch boots against the floor.

“I know that,” I snapped. “Although if you lot did your own jobs a bit better, it wouldn’t always come down to me.”

“Sorry,” he muttered, unwilling to meet my gaze.

I sighed. “Don’t apologise. Just give me a hand out there this afternoon. You’re a Chaser—chase! And Beaters?” I looked at Crabbe and Goyle in turn. “Surely Potter’s inflated head is big enough a target that you’d have to be a Hufflepuff to miss it.”

“So we’re playing dirty?” Goyle asked hopefully.

I looked at him, incredulous. “Don’t we always?”

Hart laughed, revealing a row of crooked teeth. “Potter’s going to get smashed.”

“Yeah.” Crabbe pounded his fist into his palm. “Bludger’s going to break his face.”

Over the roar of the crowd, I could just hear the Gryffindor team being announced by Seamus Finnigan, who had stepped into the role of commentator following Lee Jordan’s graduation. “It’s time,” I said, taking up my position at the head of the group and raising my broomstick. “Let’s get out there and kick some Muggle-loving arse!”

Behind me, my teammates cheered. The gate opened and I found myself staring out at the Quidditch pitch, where the Gryffindor players were already warming up. My ears filled with the sound of boos, whistles and raucous applause and I raised my hand with a regal smile. Mounting my broom, I flew skywards as my name was announced, and led my team in three swift laps of the pitch. As we passed the Slytherin stand, I threw in a couple of tricky manoeuvres to impress my fans and to hopefully give our opposition cause for alarm.

We took our positions for the start and it was only then that I became aware of Harry Potter’s presence. He was hovering several yards in front of me, looking down at Madam Hooch with reverence, as though he were truly listening to the same boring spiel she rattled out at every game. It wasn’t as though she said anything useful: just a collection of platitudes about fair play and keeping the rules.

Potter must have felt my gaze because, as I watched him, he raised his head and looked me directly in the eye. I’m not quite sure what I had expected following his recent behaviour, but it certainly wasn’t the hard, belligerent glare that I received. My composure a little rattled, it took me a moment to arrange my face into a snarl of my own. It wasn’t as though I had originally planned to greet him with a Gryffindor-wide grin or to wish him good luck—although that could have been an effective psych-out—but I had been prepared to let him off a little more lightly than usual. A mild scowl or a superior smirk, perhaps, if only to preserve my energy for the game itself.

Allowing Potter to score the first point for Gryffindor by beating me at a show of antipathy was unthinkable, however. It was also rather surprising given his strange behaviour of late. I wouldn’t say I was disappointed that things appeared to be back to normal, but a bit of continuity would’ve been nice.

“What’s wrong, Potter?” I called across to him. “Worried about the thrashing you’re about to have handed to you?”

“I don’t see why,” he shouted back. “After all, you’ve never even come close.”

Before I could respond with an appropriately scathing retort, Madam Hooch released the Snitch and the Bludgers and my thoughts and concentration were pulled back to the game. As soon as she tossed the Quaffle into the air, one of the Gryffindor Chasers swooped in to claim it, dodging an assault by Slytherin’s Edwards with practiced ease. She headed towards the goal, our own Chasers in pursuit.

There was no need for me to do anything so crude as to shout instructions to my team mates. I had spent countless afternoons and sleepy mornings drilling them in every imaginable type of play. We had staged half-a-pitch practice matches and dodged Bludgers for hours on end. Every one of my players knew precisely what was expected of him, no matter what might happen on the pitch.

Since becoming the Gryffindor captain, Potter had supposedly spent a lot of time lecturing his teammates on the theory of Quidditch and encouraging them to rely upon their instincts instead of his own instructions. Our spies had been bored half to death by his blather. I had no time for such touchy-feely nonsense. In my opinion, theory flew right out the window as soon as the balls were in the air and the first rule was bent. And, as for leaving my team mates to make their own decisions about game play… well, let’s just say that Slytherin players were chosen less on intellect than on brawn and a penchant for violence. It was better that I did the thinking for them. Remembering their left from their right was taxing enough.

So, when Crabbe sent a Bludger flying straight into the tail of the Gryffindor Chaser’s broom, upsetting her balance so much that she dropped the Quaffle right into the waiting hands of McLeod, our fastest Chaser, I was not at all surprised. Nor was I anything but pleased when a quick pass and a devious side swipe resulted in the first goal of the match, with the Quaffle sailing right past the Gryffindor Keeper without him so much as touching it with one finger.

 _I bet they’re missing Oliver Wood right now_ , I thought, allowing myself a small smile.

The play passed up and down the pitch for a few minutes without further score. As always, I divided my attention between watching the game play and searching for the familiar flash of light that marked the appearance of the Snitch.

Apparently it’s rare for Seekers to captain Quidditch teams for that very reason—so rare that when Potter and I were both elevated to the role it was the first time two houses had Seeker captains for almost ninety years. Breaking records and traditions had always been one of Potter’s most irritating traits, whether it was playing Quidditch as a first year or not dying like any normal person would. The fact that I had helped him into the record books on this occasion was particularly grating, as was knowing that our names would be linked forever. It had certainly never been my intent.

…just as that Gryffindor pass to McLeod had probably not been planned.

The lucky recipient quickly took advantage of Gryffindor’s confusion, weaving past several members of the opposite team without threat and finally sending the Quaffle though the right goal hoop just as a Weasley-hit Bludger sailed past with a few feet to spare.

Laughing, I called out to Weasley, “Your brothers wouldn’t have missed such an easy shot,” as he flew past me, his freckled skin swiftly turning red.

He threw me a glare, but was instantly accosted by Potter, who patted him on the back and leaned in to likely tell him all kinds of nonsense about bad luck and close misses. None of that would turn Weasley into a half-decent Beater, and nor would it help to dispel the persistent rumours that he had only been selected for the Gryffindor team because his best friend was the captain. After all, it had hardly been based on skill.

The next goal went to Gryffindor. Beinke, our Keeper, had ducked fractionally too late to avoid the full force of a Bludger, escaping relatively unharmed (although slightly dazed) but not recovering quickly enough to prevent the subsequent score. There was not much time to mourn the event, however, as less than a minute later we regained the two goal advantage, with Hart scoring a quick reply almost before the Gryffindors had finished celebrating.

Again, there was a lull in scoring for a few minutes. Finally, however, it seemed as though Gryffindor couldn’t fail to gain another ten points, with our Chasers being caught by surprise at the other end of the pitch. At the last moment, however, a Bludger—seemingly of its own accord—appeared truly as though from nowhere, flying towards their Chaser at an incredible speed before connecting solidly and accurately with the back of her head. Knocked instantly unconscious, she slid from her broomstick and tumbled gracelessly to the sand floor of the pitch, the Quaffle slowly floating down behind her.

Catching Potter’s eye as I flew past him, I didn’t see any reason to suppress a snigger, mentally thanking the Bludger for being so Slytherin-minded. In return, I received a horrified glare of the calibre usually reserved for puppy kickers and kitten torturers. Of course, the only effect that had was to make me laugh even harder, earning me another frown.

Which was why I almost didn’t see the Snitch.

Luckily, I turned away from Potter’s glowering face just as the faint glint of gold shone between the dark posts of the Gryffindor goals. I knew there was no chance that Potter could have spotted it, facing in the opposite direction like he was and concentrating on his injured teammate. An abrupt movement towards the Snitch would erode most of my advantage, both alerting Potter to its presence and indicating where to fly. Instead, I bit my lip and forced myself to maintain my steady pace until I was far enough away from my opponent.

Then, keeping the Snitch in my line of vision, I pointed my broomstick downwards and hurtled towards the ground in a perfect execution of the Wronski Feint. Despite his distraction, Potter took only seconds to follow my lead. He was too skilled to crash, pulling out of the manoeuvre at the very last moment, but my ploy was effective nonetheless, as he was too busy sending me annoyed glances to bother following me in my leisurely flight toward the Gryffindor goals.

A few metres away from the goal hoops, I spotted my prey once again. It was a little lower now and further to my right, but still close enough that my heart started beating a little faster, adrenalin pumping into my body and sending my blood rushing through my veins. A quick glance at Potter revealed that he was ignoring me, ostentatiously so, more interested in showing his disdain than in wondering what I might be doing lurking in the vicinity of his team’s goals.

A smile flooded my face. I paused a final moment, my eyes searching for and landing firmly on the Snitch, and then I surged forward, the wind whipping through my hair as I flew towards the hovering ball.

It took Potter a while both to notice me and to realise I wasn’t faking. By the time that he’d reached the conclusion that chasing me would probably be a good move, I was already steering my broomstick into a steep dive and chasing the Snitch down towards the sandy ground below. As much as I hated to admit it, however, Potter was always a good flier and it is always much more simple to chase and catch a Seeker than a Snitch. It was not long, therefore, before I could feel his presence right behind me, gaining on me even more when the Snitch—and I—took a sharp turn to the left.

“Caught you sleeping, did I, Potter?” I snarled at him, keeping my eyes firmly on the Snitch, for fear of losing it.

“Well, forgive me for being concerned about my teammates’ welfare,” came the cool—albeit a little breathless—reply.

“Rubbish,” I said. “You were more interested in glowering at me.”

There was no more opportunity for talking after that, with the Snitch unexpectedly darting right and then soaring skywards. Potter noticed a moment before I did, his quick reaction allowing him to close the remainder of the distance between us, and we were flying side by side by the time the enchanted ball changed directions once again.

I risked a glance over at Potter as we flew, and was surprised to see the look of complete desperation that had taken over his face. His eyes fixed on the Snitch, his mouth was set in a hard, determined line and his eyebrows were disappearing almost completely beneath the frames of his glasses. He looked very different to the boy who had blushed in the seat next to me at the Gryffindor table only a couple of weeks ago, as though this Quidditch Seeker and captain was another person entirely.

I didn’t have time to ponder the difference for long, as I was starting to gain on the Snitch. The roar of the crowd suggested that it was not only me who had noticed—well, either that, or someone had scored a goal. As much as I kept an eye on the game play while searching for the Snitch, I barely registered anything at all once I had spotted it, so intent was I upon chasing my prey. Unfortunately, this time Potter was still right beside me, his breath rasping loudly in my ears. I tried to ignore his presence, but even after six years of practicing, it was the one art that I hadn’t been able to perfect.

Trying my hardest to block him from my mind, I leaned a little further forward on my broomstick, silently urging it to fly just a fraction faster. I stretched out an arm towards the Snitch at the exact same time as Potter did and, for a moment, my concentration was focused more on an effort to knock his hand away than on my quest for the Snitch itself. Suddenly, however, Potter seemed to falter, his broomstick wobbling in the air to my right and forcing him to return his hand to the wood in order to regain full control.

I seized my chance, my heart pounding so wildly that I could hear the thud of my pulse in my ears. Sliding forward another few finger-widths on the broomstick, I clenched it firmly between my thighs and slowly lifted my other hand. I knew I wouldn’t be able to maintain the pose for long, but it added precious inches to my reach. I took a second to compose myself and then lunged for the Snitch, knowing that I would have only one chance to capture it before Potter recovered.

And, as he knocked the tail of his broom solidly into my own, I felt the cool smoothness of golden metal against the palm of my hand.

Instinctively, my fingers closed tight around the Snitch, completing its capture. I dropped the other hand back down onto my broomstick, riding out the jolt of our collision. Stunned, I slowly became aware of the ecstatic shouts and whistles floating up from the Slytherin stand, along with the shrill screech of Madam Hooch’s whistle.

“One hundred and fifty points to Slytherin,” Finnigan announced, with a strong note of disappointment in his voice. “Slytherin wins: 180 points to 10.”

Feeling quite disconnected from my body and the clamour around me, I shakily raised the Snitch in a gesture of triumph as my team mates surrounded me, their grinning faces unclouded by my own sense of disbelief.

Between their stocky bodies, however, I could see another face, one that was completely unreadable as it watched my team’s celebrations. Potter met my eyes briefly and without emotion, before turning his broom and flying off in the direction of his shocked and dejected team.

 _Probably can’t believe that the perfect Harry Potter could actually lose a game_ , I thought, a sneer twisting my lips.

But as Hart clapped me roughly on the back, muttering something about knowing all along that I could do it and punctuating the lie by almost toppling me from my broomstick, the thought echoed disturbingly in my head. After all, Potter always _had_ won in the past; for all my trying, I had never managed to beat him to the Snitch. It was strange that it had finally happened after all this time. I knew I was a good Seeker, and my record stood as proof, but against Potter that never seemed to matter. It was as though the only way that he could fail to capture the snitch was if a Dementor appeared or if he had decided not to.

 _Decided not to._ My victorious smirk froze and began to fade. Could Potter have chosen this? The thought was appalling, but it almost made sense. After all, my capture of the snitch had hardly been the strangest thing involving Potter that had happened of late. There was the Book of Malfoys and the oddly pleasant conversations and, most of all, his admission that he found me hot. What if some terrible infatuation with me had caused him to throw the match? The thought was horrible, maddening… and far too plausible.

 _How dare he treat me as though I’m not good enough to win a match of my own accord_ , I fumed. _How dare he turn my victory into a defeat_.

Brushing aside the triumphant conversations of my team mates, I turned my broomstick and escaped the tight pack, my eyes searching my surroundings for dark hair and Gryffindor Quidditch robes.

 

*

 

“Why the hell did you do that?” Even as I dragged Potter away from his friends, the words were falling from my mouth. “Is this your idea of a joke?”

“A joke?” He looked at me incredulously. “Do you really think that losing a match is my idea of humour?”

We reached an emptied area of the stands and I finally released my grip on Potter’s robes. “Hey, you’re the one who threw the game,” I said. “Don’t look at me.” I raised my hands in a gesture of surrender, although I intended to do nothing of the sort.

“I did what?”

“Threw the game.” Leaning in, I met his eyes, a bitter smile tugging at the corners of my lips. “Don’t try to tell me you didn’t.”

He frowned, his expression a mix of anger and confusion. “I’m afraid I _am_ going to have to tell you that, because it’s the truth. Why the hell would I want to throw one of our most important matches for the season?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

“You’re seriously demented, Malfoy.” A look of understanding suddenly coloured his eyes. “Or is this just your clumsy way of rubbing my nose in our defeat?”

This was far more frustrating than it needed to be. “I don’t know why you won’t just admit it!” My body was beginning to stiffen up after the match, so I lowered myself onto the bench beside us, pausing to rub a knot from my calf before going on. “We both know there’s no way I’d have caught the Snitch if you hadn’t had broom trouble right at the most important moment,” I continued. “Very convenient, don’t you think? Never mind the fact that you’re far too good a Seeker to let a little wobble throw you off your game.”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” Potter muttered. He had remained on his feet, as though he thought the height difference would somehow give him the argumentative edge. When he spoke again, his voice was louder and his eyes were challenging. “Let me guess—this is all some kind of elaborate scheme to make me admit you’re the better Seeker. What do you want me to say? That you’re some kind of Quidditch genius? That I’m astounded by your sheer brilliance?” He shook his head, jaw set. “Not bloody likely.”

“All I want to hear from you is an admission that you threw the game,” I replied coolly. “I already know the rest.

Something in Potter seemed to snap. It was an interesting sight: his face white with anger, the pallor broken only by the flush of pink that marked the furious twist of his lips. The green of his eyes was even more arresting than usual, brightened by the resentment in his gaze. Even the lines of his body changed, his usual awkward posture disappearing as emotion tensed and broadened his limbs and frame. For a moment, I actually believed Potter capable of destroying the Dark Lord by more than lucky chance.

Stepping forward so that he was all but standing on my feet, he shouted down at me, “I. Did. Not. Throw. The. Game!”

“Temper, temper,” I drawled, smirking.

“What do you expect? It’s bad enough losing to you, without you accosting me on my way to the changing rooms so that I have to put up with all this bullshit when all I want to do is have a shower.”

I raised an eyebrow, amused. “Does Granger know you use language like that?”

“You’ve obviously never heard her when she gets a question wrong on her Arithmancy homework.” For a moment, his face softened a fraction, but the lapse was soon corrected, his glare returning stronger than ever. “Besides, this isn’t about Hermione,” he snapped. “This is about me and you.”

“Exactly,” I said, my voice thick with insinuation.

“What?” My tone obviously wasn't lost on Potter. “So that’s where you’re coming from? Some ridiculous idea that I’m so overwhelmed by my feelings for you that I decided to throw a Quidditch match, just to gain your favour? Now who’s joking?” He shook his head, letting out an irritable huff of breath. “The size of your ego really is quite breathtaking at times, Malfoy. Rest assured, I am nowhere near as impressed by you as you are by yourself. If I were going to throw a game—and I find that _highly_ unlikely—it would be for someone a hell of a lot more worthy than you. And a lot better looking, at that.”

“You were calling me sexy a few weeks ago,” I argued. It wasn’t that Potter’s opinion mattered to me at all—what did _I_ care if he found me good looking or not?—but he could at least be consistent.

“I was drugged. By _you_ , in case you’ve forgotten.”

“So, what you’re telling me is that I caught the Snitch and won the game purely on the strength of my own talent.”

“As much as I hate to admit it, yes.” He shrugged. “I guess you finally learnt how to play the game.”

“I was playing Quidditch when you were still a Muggle nobody,” I spat.

“You’d think that you’d be a lot better at it by now, then, wouldn’t you?” He didn’t bother waiting for an answer, instead turning to watch as Weasley and Granger made their way across the Quidditch pitch towards us, walking rather close to each other for people who were meant to be just good friends. “Hello,” he greeted them, his tone much warmer than before.

“Harry,” Weasley nodded, before turning to frown at me, his voice hardening. “Malfoy.”

Granger didn’t bother with words, instead acknowledging my presence with a murderous glare.

“It’s a real pity about the match,” Weasley said, turning his back to me. “I guess even the worst players have to get lucky sometimes.”

“Exactly,” Granger agreed. “It’s simply the law of averages. The important thing is that you played fairly—unlike some other people I could name.” She gave me a pointed look, her eyebrows raised.

“What are you talking about, Granger?” I asked. “Actually, forget it. I don’t care about your latest crazy theory; I know I didn’t cheat.” Standing, I turned to Potter, my tone cold. “Lovely talking to you, Potter. We must do it again sometime—that is, if you can bear to waste another minute on someone so _unworthy_.”

As I walked towards the Slytherin changing rooms, Weasley’s voice floated to my ears, only slightly muffled by the distance. “He’s such a bloody creep, Harry. I don’t know why you bother with him.”

If Potter replied, his answer was lost in the wind.

 

*

 

The mood in the Slytherin changing rooms was buoyant. As I opened the door, I was greeted with a clamour of shouted conversation punctuated by victorious whoops. My conversation with Potter had ensured that I was the last to return, and the rest of my teammates were in various stages of showering and dressing by the time I arrived.

"Where've you been, Malfoy?" Edwards shouted from one of the showers. As always, he had left the door open, as though (wrongly) believing we'd appreciate the chance to admire his naked body. Tall and hulking, he had nothing I wanted to see. "Signing autographs for your fans, were you?"

"I was talking to Potter, actually," I said, hoping that my brisk tone would ward off further questions.

"Good move." Hart clapped me roughly on the back as he leaned over me to grab his school tie. "Rub it in as much as possible while the wound’s still fresh, right?"

I smiled weakly. "Right."

I started to remove my robes, eager to avoid too much talk on the subject. Thankfully, they all ignored me for a while after those initial exchanges, presumably taking my reticence for a combination of exhaustion and smug self-congratulation. In reality, however, I was reeling from the knowledge that I had, for the first time, beaten Harry Potter to the Snitch. Not through cheating, not through Potter handing me the game out of some foolish emotion, but rather through my own Quidditch ability. As much as I had faith in my own talent, it was still a little difficult to take in—as was the idea that there could be anyone at Hogwarts that Potter might consider more attractive than me.

It wasn’t as though I was interested in him, naturally, but I had rather grown used to the idea of _him_ being interested in _me_. There was something very pleasing about the idea that my greatest enemy might be completely defenceless in the face of my many charms. Not to mention, an infatuated Potter could have proved very useful. Life at Hogwarts would have been so much easier if I could have silenced him with a lingering gaze or a quick twitch of my lips. But it seemed that any affection on Potter’s behalf had been very short-lived. Perhaps it really had just been the potion talking when he had told me that he thought I was hot, and some as-yet-undiscovered ulterior motive that had led to him creating his birthday gift to me.

And, if I felt a little disappointed, it was only because an advantage had been lost. What other reason did I have to care?

I had no cause for anything but celebration. I had finally beaten Harry Potter to the Golden Snitch after years of trying. The memory of all the near misses and humiliations was already fading; nothing could tarnish my moment of triumph, nothing could spoil the sweet taste of victory. Not even the reality of a changing room full of brawny halfwits and sweat-soaked Quidditch robes could destroy my moment.

“What’re you thinking about?” McLeod demanded, breaking the silence and waving his towel menacingly at me, as though about to attack me with it. “Or should I say _who_? Pansy back in the picture?”

"What do you mean, 'who'?" I set about retrieving my own towel from my Quidditch bag, trying my best to look completely uninterested in his insinuations. “I don’t know what you’re on about.”

Obviously I needed to work on my dismissive responses, because within seconds, I found myself surrounded by intrigued teammates in various stages of undress.

“Not Pansy then,” Hart said, leaning in far more closely than I would have liked. “You wouldn’t try to hide that. Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with us.”

“There’s no secret,” I protested, but he just touched one finger to his nose and resumed dressing. I turned to Crabbe and Goyle for support. “There’s not!”

“We believe you, Draco,” Goyle said reassuringly.

Crabbe frowned. “I don’t even know what’s going on.”

“Nothing’s going on.” Grumpily, I picked up my towel and pushed through the loose circle of bodies, seeking the relative privacy of the showers. Once inside the closest cubicle, I slammed the door shut pointedly and, after hanging my towel on the hook on the back of the door, busied myself with turning on the water and painstakingly adjusting the heat.

“You’d think he’d be in a better mood after finally beating Potter.” Edwards’s voice was clear even above the noise of the water splashing against the tiled floor. “He’s acting like we lost.”

“He said he was talking to Potter after the game, remember,” Crabbe said in my defence. “Spending time with that stupid do-gooder would put anyone in a bad mood.”

“Perhaps Potter’s who he’s mooning over!” Beinke burst into a raucous laugh that echoed throughout the changing room.

My other teammates seemed to find the idea just as hilarious, thank goodness, their combined laughter sounding loudly within the confined space.

“Just imagine it,” Hart snickered once they had all calmed down enough to be capable of speech. “The day Malfoy falls for Harry Potter is the day Hufflepuff wins the House Cup.”

I was never going to be able to concentrate on my triumph if they wouldn’t shut up about Potter, no matter how amusing my housemates found the idea. To make things worse, I was beginning to get a headache, and it wasn’t being helped by their raucous laughter ricocheting off the walls. Already, my left temple was starting to throb in tempo with the noise.

“I can hear you all, I hope you realise,” I called through the closed cubicle door.

Instantly, my teammates became silent, save for an unidentifiable “oops”. Frowning, I reached for the soap, trying to conjure a memory of the exact moment when my fingers had closed around the Snitch and secured a Slytherin win. Instead, however, all I could seem to think about was Harry Potter, and the way his green eyes had flashed when he had told me just how little he cared.

 

*

 

By the time I had finished showering and dressing, the rest of my team had already left the changing room, probably eager to avoid being on the receiving end of my bad mood. Minutes earlier, I had wanted nothing more than to see them gone but, as I sat alone on a bench, lacing my shoes, I couldn’t help but feel a little abandoned. So much for celebrating our first win against Gryffindor. Sighing, I packed my Quidditch robes and towel into my bag and made my way out of the steamy room. I could be guaranteed a hero’s welcome in the Slytherin common room, at least.

As soon as I had closed the changing room door behind me, a slight figure stepped out from the lengthening shadows, causing me to jump. The crowd had long since dissipated and there was nobody else in sight, which made it all the more surprising when I turned to find myself looking straight into the dark green eyes of Harry Potter.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I snapped. “Do you always lurk outside other houses’ changing rooms?” Then, realising I didn’t actually care about his answer, I started the walk back to the school building without waiting for his reply.

Potter fell into step beside me, however, deaf to the undercurrent of ‘leave me alone’ in my voice. “I wanted to apologise,” he said stiffly. “For the things I said to you before.”

I was so stunned that I came to an abrupt stop, turning to stare at him with wary eyes. “Why on earth would you want to do that?” As I remembered his words, my gaze hardened. “Wouldn’t you be better off saving the apologies for someone _worthier_ than me?”

He frowned. “That was a bit mean, wasn’t it?”

"Just a little." I started walking again and Potter followed suit, sticking disconcertingly close to my side. "Keep that up and you might actually grow some balls one of these days."

He stared at me for a long moment before eventually risking a small smile. "You never know."

I gave him one of my most disparaging looks. "Don't get too excited," I said. "Granger will always be ten times the man you are."

Potter burst into laughter, my words definitely not having their desired effect. "Too true." As his laughter died, he reached out and grasped my shoulder, not aggressively, but still with enough strength behind the gesture to bring me to a halt. "I really am, you know," he said, his voice even. "Sorry, I mean." He sounded as though the words had been well rehearsed, perhaps muttering them over and over to himself in the Gryffindor showers. "I was annoyed at myself for losing, and I took it out on you."

I shrugged. “So? If you’re asking me for absolution, I really don’t care.”

For a moment he looked hurt, but then his eyes cleared. “I’m sure you don’t,” he admitted with a small smile. “But I want to apologise anyway. I know we’ve said a lot of things to each other over the years, some of them pretty awful, but I’d like to think I’ve told the truth, at least through my eyes. What I said today… well, that was just plain cruel. I couldn’t live with myself if I were the kind of person who didn’t apologise for that.”

"So this is about your ego?” I drawled. “I had a feeling it wasn’t a selfless act.”

"You could at least be gracious enough to let me talk without interrupting every few seconds." His mouth twisted into a smile that—rather disconcertingly—resembled one of my own smirks. When I stayed silent, he continued, obviously bent on telling me his entire life story before he would allow me to return to the dungeons.

"Quidditch means a lot to me. When I first came to Hogwarts, everyone saw me as 'The Boy Who Lived': some kind of orphaned freak who just happened to be good at deflecting curses. Do you know what it's like having to walk around with this scar on your head every single day of your life?" He jabbed at the faded lightning bolt on his forehead. It had become more silvery following the Dark Lord’s death, but it was still visible from a short distance.

I shrugged.

"No, I guess you wouldn't." He sighed dramatically. "Well, take my word for it; it's not much fun. Anyway, when I started playing Quidditch, things started to improve a little. Instead of being famous for something I had no control over, people started thinking of me as the Gryffindor Seeker. And I was—I am—bloody good at it."

I raised an eyebrow. "Why exactly are you telling me this? It's a magnificent sob-story, I’ll give you that, but I really don't see how it has anything to do with me."

“I’m trying to explain why I got so angry when you accused me of throwing the game,” he said patiently. “I’d never do a thing like that. Never. That would be like turning into an entirely different person, and not one I’d ever want to be. And, of course,” he added, “it didn’t exactly help that I’d just lost a game against Slytherin, of all teams.”

“Probably felt a lot like losing to Gryffindor.” I shrugged. “Frustrating, but nowhere near as bad as feeling like the only way I’d managed to beat you was because you felt sorry for me.”

“Not likely,” he grinned. “Trust me—I made a mistake. That’s all there is to it. And even if I hadn’t, we were neck and neck. You could have won regardless. As much as I hate to say it, you won: fair and square.” His eyes glinted with mischief. “Well, as fair as anything is when Slytherin’s involved.”

"We had nothing to do with your Chaser getting hit," I protested.

"I know. Bet you wish you had, though.”

I ignored his comment. “For what it’s worth,” I said, “I understand. About Quidditch, I mean. Everywhere else, I’m Lucius Malfoy’s son, but not when I’m flying. Up there, I’m just me.”

Potter nodded, the corners of his mouth lifting in a tentative smile. Despite myself, I found myself mirroring his expression. He released my shoulder and we resumed the walk back to the castle in silence. Finally, just as we reached the front entrance, he turned to regard me with curious eyes.

“Why did you really think I threw the game for you?” he asked. “And why now, after all this time?”

I avoided his gaze. "Well, you have been acting rather strangely," I said. “You’ve gone from wanting me dead to giving me birthday presents, practically overnight. So when I finally beat you to the Snitch after all this time…”

“…you had to wonder,” he finished.

“It seemed like it all made sense.”

"And it didn't occur to you that you might be able to beat me without my help?" He grinned evilly. "You're slipping, Draco."

I didn’t gratify him with a reply, instead letting out a soft harrumph of displeasure.

"Anyway," he continued, his voice irritatingly bright, "that's all I wanted to say. While I'm genuinely sorry I blew up at you..." He paused mid-sentence, reaching out to softly touch my hand, his fingers brushing lightly against my skin in a brief burst of warmth. Almost immediately, however, he withdrew from the touch, his eyes wide, as though he had been stung by some unknown hex.

"While I'm sorry," he repeated, staring down at his fingers, "I would never— _could_ never—throw a game." His smile softened and his eyes rose again to shakily meet my gaze. "Not even for you."

Without another word, he turned and left, walking swiftly in the direction of the Gryffindor tower, his dark robes swirling like midnight water around his legs.

I was left alone in the doorway, clutching my bag and my broomstick and wondering what the hell he had meant by that—and why the hell I cared.

 


	5. The Headmaster's Request

There was always something a little bit unnerving about a teacher’s office. I had seen a few of them in my time, and they all seemed to share the same kind of otherworldly atmosphere. Most were musty, cluttered and filled with the scent of old books. It was a strange odour: a combination of decaying paper, damp leather and a few decades’ worth of dust. It stuck to my robes even after I had left the room.

Teachers’ desks were equally uniform. Typically broad and marked by scratches and smudged ink, their surfaces were usually covered with curled scrolls and loose sheets of paper, occasionally punctuated by a framed photo or a quirky ornament. Even Snape—usually so austere—displayed a small collection of antique glass beakers on one corner of his desk.

Although headmaster, and a known eccentric, Dumbledore was not immune to this consistency. While his office was adorned with interesting artefacts and the zoological rarity of a caged phoenix, his desk itself was an uninspiring mess of papers and trite personal effects. There was a coyly smiling photograph of (the late) Nicholas Flamel, a ghastly apple-shaped novelty bearing the phase ‘Apple for the Headmaster’, and a replica Golden Snitch, painted in the colours of Puddlemere United. It was all very tacky. There was little wonder that I didn’t like the man.

Certainly, he had his admirers. Most of Gryffindor worshipped the ground he walked upon, and many of the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff students were similarly afflicted. Even a few of my Slytherin housemates had been heard to say the odd positive thing about him, although such comments were usually whispered between friends. I had never understood the fascination. For as long as I could remember, my father had been criticising Dumbledore’s every move. Over dinner, he would pick apart articles in the Daily Prophet, scoffing at their bias, and condemn Dumbledore’s politics, teaching methods and unfashionable robes.

While I agreed with much of my father’s assessment, it was Dumbledore’s favouritism that riled me the most. He seemed to have a separate set of rules for Gryffindor than he did for everyone else. Time after time, Gryffindor misconduct was ignored—or even praised—while the rest of us were given detentions for the slightest offense. Worse still was his blatant partiality when it came to Harry Potter. Since our very first day at Hogwarts, Dumbledore had been cossetting and grooming Potter, as though he were some kind of defenceless waif in need of protection. Whatever negative feelings I might have had about Potter, I knew he was perfectly capable of looking after himself. Dumbledore’s interest was misplaced: just another fool falling prey to the allure of The Boy Who Lived. And yet, he was a fool who had been feared by the Dark Lord himself.

Sitting in a battered chair in front of Dumbledore’s desk and staring into his expressionless eyes, I could almost begin to understand why.

I had received my summons to the headmaster’s office not long before the end of my Friday afternoon Potions class, much to the annoyance of Professor Snape. One of Dumbledore’s personal owls had flown through the classroom door with a great deal of noise and fuss, circling the room several times before finally dropping a folded note into the hands of a furious Snape.

An exasperated sigh and a few sharp words later, I had found myself embarking upon the long trek from the Potions classroom to Dumbledore’s office. In one hand, I held the note, which contained the latest password to gain entry—butterbeer—but no hint of why I might be required. I found it a poor substitute for the cauldron, books and stationery I had been forced to leave at the mercy of the Gryffindor students in my Potions class.

Walking the Hogwarts corridors, I had been able to think of no reason why Dumbledore could possibly need to see me. And, after five minutes of listening to him prattle, I was no more enlightened. I did, however, know more than I cared to about the state of his brother’s bowels. If I had been missing Divination or Care of Magical Creatures, I probably wouldn’t have minded the distraction. I had always enjoyed Potions, however, and that class was particularly important, as we had a test scheduled for the following Monday. It was going to cover everything we had learnt so far that year, and I had no intention of getting a poor mark.

Snape wasn’t usually the type to give out last minute study hints—or any hints at all, for that matter—but, knowing my luck, he would decide to do so while I was gone. It wasn’t as though I could trust Crabbe or Goyle to take notes in my absence. Their scrolls were usually a mess of inkblots and crude doodles. Pansy’s notes were generally neat and reliable, but things were still a little strained between us and I didn’t think it right to ask the favour. I was on my own, and therefore very glad when Dumbledore finally got to the point.

"So, Draco," he said, his long fingers steepling as he leaned forward to hold my gaze, “I hear you are headed for another very impressive year in your Potions class. Professor Snape has nothing but good things to say about your talents.”

I raised an eyebrow, wary of his flattery. “Really? I didn’t think Snape went in for praise.”

“Only where it’s due,” Dumbledore said. “And then, only rarely.”

It was one of the things I liked about Snape. He didn’t gush. It gave his words greater meaning. A simple “good” from Snape was worth far more to me than effusive praise from almost anyone else.

“He tells me you’re his best student,” Dumbledore continued.

I nodded, never one to see the point of false modesty. “I am,” I said. “By far. No one has even come within ten marks of my average since that Granger swot dropped the subject.”

Dumbledore ignored the sneer that crossed my face at my mention of the Mudblood’s name, instead launching straight into what was (as soon became obvious) the business part of our meeting. “Good, good,” he muttered, his gaze wandering over the open scroll in front of him before rising to meet my eyes. “I might just have a little task for you, then. A favour, if you like. Call it what you will—a headmaster’s request, perhaps.”

I tried not to let my disdain show too clearly on my face. “Now that we’ve settled on a title for this favour,” I drawled, “Perhaps you might like to enlighten me about what it actually is.”

“Always so impatient, Draco,” he said, watching me with keen eyes. “You are truly your father’s son.”

I bit my lip, determined not to reward him with a smile.

“Still,” he continued. “I know you must be eager to get back to class. Tell me—have you ever considered tutoring?”

I was unable to restrain the splutter that burst from my lips. “Tutoring?” I repeated, in case I had misheard.

He nodded.

"I can assure you that it's never even crossed my mind."

“Be that as it may,” Dumbledore said, “I must ask that you consider it now. There is a very promising final year student who is currently in grave danger of failing Potions.”

I raised an eyebrow. "If he's as promising as you say, why’s he so close to failing?"

"Promising in other ways," Dumbledore clarified.

I shrugged. "Good for him. Or her. But I don’t see how it has anything to do with me."

Dumbledore leant further forward, the hair of his beard pooling on the desk in front of him. "I want you to tutor him."

I mirrored the gesture, sans beard, never one to back down from a challenge. “What’s in it for me?” I asked. “After all, I have my own study to do. As I’m sure you know, we have an important Potions test on Monday. I was planning to spend the weekend studying.”

“What? And miss a Hogsmeade trip on Sunday? How dedicated.” Was that a twinkle I could see in Dumbledore’s pale eyes? “Nonetheless, I am sure you can spare a few hours. It might even be helpful to study with a classmate.” Leaning back in his chair, he picked up the Puddlemere United Snitch, turning it over in his hand as he talked. “As for your question, I don’t suppose you might like to take on the task for purely altruistic reasons?”

I snorted.

A slight smile twitched at the corner of Dumbledore's lips. "No, I thought not. I _did_ , however, think that you might be persuaded to change your mind if I—for instance—brought up the matter of your most recent attempt to have Harry Potter expelled…”

I gaped at him silently for several seconds before finding my voice. “The bastard _told_ you?” I spluttered. “He _told_ you that I drugged him?” Suddenly, everything made a lot more sense. “Of course he did,” I said, frowning. “No wonder he was being so good about it all.”

After a few moments of fuming, I slowly became aware that Dumbledore was watching me, an amused look upon his face.

“What?” I snapped.

“Harry told me nothing,” he said, “but I had a feeling that you might have _something_ on your conscience.”

Speechless again, I stared at him, furious at myself for having fallen for such a simple trick. If my father heard about it, he would never let me live it down.

“Drugs, though, Draco?” he continued. “I expected more of you.”

“It was just a stupid potion,” I muttered. “All it did was make him a bit tipsy. I was the one who had to drag him all over Hogwarts.”

“An expulsion-worthy offense, nevertheless,” Dumbledore said. “That is, unless you’ve had a change of heart. Perhaps you might fancy doing a few hours of tutoring after all…”

I glared at him. “I don’t think I have much choice, do I? Although I am sure Father would be _very_ unhappy to learn that blackmail is used so freely at this school.”

“I’m sure he would,” Dumbledore replied mildly, “if it were, in fact, the truth. I’m not blackmailing you, Draco. I am merely allowing you to choose your own punishment: a night’s worth of tutoring, or expulsion from Hogwarts, effective immediately.”

I took a moment to consider my options. Dumbledore had me well and truly backed into a corner, and it was my own stupid fault. I could either give in to his ploy and agree to his request (thus ruining my weekend and my reputation) or face a proper punishment. As proud as I was of those of my ancestors who had been expelled from Hogwarts for various nefarious deeds, I didn’t much like the idea of joining their ranks. I was on track for an excellent number of NEWTs and I had no intention of letting Harry Potter mess that up.

“Okay then,” I muttered. “I guess I don’t have much of a choice. Who do you want me to tutor? It’s not Goyle, is it? Because he’s a lost cause. I’ve tried knocking that stuff into his head countless times. It’s never going to stick.”

He shook his head. "No, not Master Goyle."

“Pansy, then?” I asked. “Because that’s not really the best idea right now. I’ve helped her in the past, but things are a little… awkward… between us at the moment. We broke up over the summer, you see, and…” I let my voice trail off, realising that the last thing I wanted to do was discuss my personal life with Dumbledore.

“No, not Miss Parkinson, either.”

"Who, then?" I demanded, sick of guessing and eager to get back to class.

Although his expression remained serious, there was a definite smile in Dumbledore's voice. "Harry Potter," he said. “A perfect way to make amends, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

“No.” I shook my head firmly. “Even expulsion’s better than that.”

Dumbledore just continued to look at me, not saying a word.

“You’re not going to try to appeal to my conscience, are you?” I blundered on. “Because I don’t have one. I don’t owe anything to our resident celebrity.”

It was the truth, after all. The only regret I felt about that little incident was that I had failed to go through with my plan.  Dumbledore had to be madder than I’d realised to think that I would agree to help my mortal enemy. Backing down on my attempt to have him expelled was one thing, but actively helping him to remain at Hogwarts was unthinkable. Why, that would be tantamount to admitting that I didn’t actually hate Potter after all, and I wasn’t about to do that.

“It’s your decision, of course,” Dumbledore said mildly. “Although I _had_ thought that you might be interested in a few bonus marks in recognition of your assistance.”

“From blackmail to bribery.” I glared across the desk at him. “Why me?”

“As you said yourself, you are the student most qualified for the job. And yours was the name that Harry suggested.”

“He did _what_?” I shook my head. “No, don’t bother repeating that. Of course he did.”

It all made sense. For all his failings, Potter was too smart to simply report my actions to the headmaster. No one liked a snitch, and this way he could exact his revenge in a more subtle manner. Not only would he have me at his mercy for a few hours, but he’d also improve his Potions mark in the process. It was a devious, underhanded plan… and I couldn’t help but admire him a little for it. Not that I’d ever admit that.

Bonus marks _and_ the chance to avoid expulsion were rather hard to say no to. And, if I thought about it, there was no reason why I actually had to _help_ Potter. The requirement was simply that I tutor him for a few hours. As long as I seemed to be doing the right thing, Dumbledore would be happy. If I were to feed Potter incorrect formulae and dubious facts, the resulting poor mark could easily be attributed to his own lack of ability.

I sighed deeply. “Okay, I’ll do it,” I grumbled. “But just this once. If he needs help again, he’s on his own.”

“Good, good.” Dumbledore beamed at me like the benign headmaster I knew he was not. “Professor Snape has kindly agreed to let you use the Potions classroom this evening.”

"The classroom?" I frowned. "Why can’t he just come to the Slytherin common room?"

“That’s against school rules, as you know. Besides,” Dumbledore added, raising one bushy eyebrow, “do you _really_ want to tutor Harry Potter in front of all of your housemates?”

I had to admit that he had a point. If at all possible, I’d rather this didn’t get back to my friends at all. “Perhaps not.” I smiled weakly. “The Potions classroom it is, then. What time?”

"I've arranged for Harry to meet you there at 7.30." Standing, Dumbledore moved to join me on my side of the desk, and I took his cue to rise from my own chair. He walked me to the door, opening it for me and ushering me outside.

“He’d better be on time,” I said and turned to leave.

“Oh, and Draco?” Dumbledore’s voice carried up the corridor after me. “Drugs and study don’t mix.”

 _Hilarious_ , I thought to myself with clenched teeth. How lucky we were to have such a comedian as our headmaster. As I started the walk back to the Potions classroom, my face relaxed into a disgruntled sneer. I could think of many enjoyable ways to spend a Friday night at Hogwarts, and exactly none of them involved Harry Potter.

 

#

 

That evening, when I arrived at the Potions classroom ten minutes late, Potter was already there, hunched over what looked to be our textbook. The room took on an entirely different appearance at night, stripped of students and Snape’s glowering presence. It seemed much bigger without the usual clutter of books, cauldrons and ingredients, and certainly a lot more welcoming without Snape’s black-clad figure at the front of the room. The soft, golden flicker of the torches around the walls provided a warmer light than the weak and dusty daylight that usually filled the room. It almost rendered the room beautiful, but the ancient stone walls and cut glass windows were overwhelmed by the mess of desks and benches that overfilled the space.

I didn't speak until I was standing right behind Potter. "Evening."

He jumped, startled, and quickly turned to face me. "I didn't hear you come in," he said sheepishly, his eyes shyly meeting mine.

"That was the idea." I dropped my books onto the desk beside him and they landed with a pleasing thud.

“Oh.”

He gestured awkwardly to the seat next to his, directing me to sit. I obliged. I would have preferred to distance myself, but it would be difficult to work out where Potter was going wrong if I couldn’t see him work.

“Thanks for helping me out,” he muttered, his voice so quiet that I could barely make out the words. 

“It’s not as though I had much choice,” I said. “It was either this or be expelled, according to Dumbledore. He found out about that potion I fed you.”

Potter’s eyes widened. “I didn’t tell him!” he protested. “I wouldn’t. It must have been one of your friends.”

"My friends do _not_ know what happened that night," I said firmly, "and frankly I'd prefer to keep it that way."

"Well, _I_ didn't tell him."

“So you said.” I didn’t think it necessary to tell him that it had actually been my fault that Dumbledore had found out about the incident. Let him wonder whether it had been one of his own friends that had told on me. “Look, it doesn’t matter. I just wanted to make it perfectly clear that I’m not doing this for you.”

He smiled. “I never thought you would. That’s why I suggested you be given bonus marks for tutoring me.”

“I don’t know why you had to suggest me, anyway,” I grumbled. “I would’ve thought you’d prefer to fail than to come to me for help.”

Potter looked uncomfortable, his cheeks colouring a little as he looked away, avoiding my eyes. “I knew it would annoy you,” he said quickly, his words falling over each other in his hurry to justify himself. “And besides, I really need to do well on this test and you’re the best Potions student in the school.”

“Yes. I am. Although I’m beginning to wish I wasn’t.” I sighed deeply. There was nothing like being punished for your success. “Oh, well. Let’s get this over with. What do you need help with?”

He smiled sheepishly. “Everything.”

I stared at him, amazed. “I thought you were meant to be some kind of teenage prodigy,” I said, “and yet you can’t even manage to mix up a few basic Potions.”

“No one’s perfect.” At least he had the decency to look ashamed.

“No? I think I come pretty damn close.”

Potter rolled his eyes. “Right,” he said, drawing out the word. “Can we get started? Or do you want to indulge in a bit more self-adoration first?”

I grinned. “As tempting as the latter option may be, I’d prefer to be out of here before midnight. It’s a difficult choice.”

“How about you take turns? Fifteen minutes of Potions, then fifteen minutes of telling me how wonderful you are. Repeat ad infinitum, or until Snape comes in here and tells us to get to bed.”

I tried to bite back my laughter, but a small snicker escaped. “Sounds like fun.”

I didn’t think I would ever get used to those moments of comfortable banter with Potter. As insufferable as he could be, there were times when he almost seemed bearable. If I were forced to admit it—and I would have to be forced—I sometimes found myself quite enjoying the back and forth between us. Potter was one of the few people at Hogwarts who would openly disagree with me or tease me to my face. In anyone else, that kind of confidence would have gained my begrudging respect. I wasn’t about to go that far where Potter was concerned, but I appreciated the measure of humour and self-assurance that often accompanied his insults.

“What about bigoted comments?” he asked now, his green eyes glinting evilly behind his glasses. “We’ll need to allocate some time for those.”

I scowled at him, but I doubt the expression reached my eyes. “While you’re there, you’d better put aside a few hours for you to fill with self-righteousness.”

He grinned, annoyingly unaffected by my words. “I don’t think we’re going to have much time left for study.”

“I’m sure as hell not doing this again tomorrow,” I said quickly, before he could get any ideas. “As strange as it may seem to you, I _do_ have better things to do with my time than teaching you ‘Potions for Idiots’.

This time, my words seemed to score a direct hit. Potter’s smile instantly faded, and the glint vanished from his eyes as his features tightened. “Thanks a bloody lot,” he said coolly. “I’m glad you think I’m such an imbecile.”

That was too much of a free shot for me to bother taking advantage of it. “You’re the one who decided you needed tutoring,” I said instead. “I’m just collateral damage.”

“Actually, Snape did the deciding,” he admitted. “I just agreed to the whole thing on the proviso that you did the tutoring.” As soon as the words left his mouth he frowned, and a little of the colour returned to his cheeks. “Purely to annoy you, of course,” he added hurriedly.

I frowned. “Of course.”

“Anyway,” he continued, his voice brisk. “Hadn’t we better get started? Then you can get on with all those better things you want to do.”

“Sure,” I nodded. “It shouldn’t take too long; after all, it’s not like we have a whole year’s worth of content to get through. And you’re not _completely_ thick—you’re just rubbish at Potions.”

He smiled. “From you, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It’s as good as you’re ever likely to get.”

“What? You’re not going to tell me how much you enjoy the pleasure of my company?” He laughed and flicked the pages of his Potions textbook back to the beginning of the first chapter.

I frowned, never quite sure how seriously I should take his comments. “You weren’t really expecting me to say that, were you?”

Potter looked at me, his expression guarded. “Of course not. You hate me. We established that more than six years ago.” With a shrug, he returned his attention to the textbook, his eyes darting from side to side as he skimmed the words in front of him.

There was something quite peculiar about the matter-of-fact tone of his voice. His words felt more appropriate to a fiery tirade than to what had been a relatively amiable conversation. Strange how hate could be so calm: a fact no more emotional than naming a capital city or giving a Quidditch score. But then, we had been playing the same game for so long, keeping within boundaries established when we were no more than kids. If it sometimes it felt like we were just going through the motions, it was hardly surprising. Even loathing grew a little faded over time.

“See, here’s where I start to get confused.” Potter jabbed a finger at the offending paragraph, not lifting his eyes from the page. “One minute they’re talking about anti-aging elixirs, but then the next minute they’re going on about the aging effects of their overuse. That doesn’t make any sense.”

I frowned, leaning forward to look at the page. “But that’s obvious, isn’t it?”

"No."

“Think of it like this.” Very aware of how close my head was to Potter’s, I shifted a little in my seat. “Say Snape took the correct dosage of an age-reduction potion. He might lose a few wrinkles and get rid of the grey in his hair. If he took too much, though, it could have all sorts of side effects. For instance, he could lose all his hair and teeth because those adult physical characteristics had reverted to those of an infant. Cute on a baby, maybe, but on a fully grown man, a gummy smile and bald head would be very aging.”

Potter laughed loudly and at length, his eyes watering, while I just stared at him in a combination of confusion and irritation.

“Sorry,” he spluttered, when he had finally recovered enough to speak. “But that is the most brilliant mental image.”

Once it had been pointed out to me, I couldn’t help but picture a hairless and toothless Snape myself—and had to admit it was a rather amusing thought. “Imagine him coming into class like that,” I said, snickering.

Potter succumbed to another flood of laughter. “He’d act as though nothing had changed, and we’d all have to pretend that he looked just the same as always.”

“And then Crabbe would come out with some kind of misjudged comment, like ‘where’s your hair, sir?’, and wonder why everyone was trying to get him to keep quiet.”

“And Snape would turn bright red, splutter for a minute or ten, and then give every one of us detention for somehow being responsible for his bad luck,” Potter concluded with a grin.

Despite myself, I grinned back at him. "Which is why you should never take too large a dose of an anti-ageing elixir!" I said triumphantly.

“I’ll never forget that now,” Potter said. “If I ever get stuck, all I’ll have to do is look up at Snape, and it’ll all come flooding back.” He paused, frowning. “Of course, then I’ll be too busy laughing to write down the answer, and I’ll just end up failing the test anyway.”

“You won’t fail.” I waved a hand toward myself. “After all, there’s not much to learn about Potions that I can’t teach you.”

“I’m sure you _can_ teach it to me,” he replied, “but whether you will or not is another thing entirely. As far as I know, you could be planning to spend the next few hours feeding me made-up formulas and incorrect facts. And if that’s the case, I’d say that me failing this test on Monday is pretty inevitable, wouldn’t you?”

I could feel my face beginning to colour, so I quickly looked away. “If I did that, Dumbledore wouldn’t be very happy. After all, I _am_ doing this at his personal request.”

"You're doing this at _my_ request, ultimately," he reminded me. "And since when have you cared what Dumbledore thought?"

"Never," I admitted.

"Exactly." He smiled weakly. "Don't tell me you haven't considered sabotaging this."

I frowned, a little perturbed. "Am I that obvious?"

"I've had six years to get used to your attempts to get rid of me," he pointed out.

"Great," I muttered, glaring down at the desk in front of me. "Well, there's not much point in me doing anything, if you've already anticipated my every move."

"You sound so affronted," he marvelled, his tone a cross between exasperation and amusement.

“I just don’t see why things have to be so predictable. Why does everything always need to be about getting you expelled?”

He was silent for a while and when he spoke, his tone was unfamiliar. “Because it always has been?”

“What if I’m bored with all that?”

“That… would be a pleasant surprise.”

Unsettled, I directed my glare at him for a moment before returning my attention to the text. "Well, what's next?" I asked briskly. "We haven't got all night."

“Now you’re really starting to sound like a teacher,” he said, keeping his voice equally as light. “Don’t worry,” he continued. “I can take a hint. You’re here because you have to be, not because you want to sit around talking to me all night.”

I think I must have had a minor brain aneurysm at that point in time, because I had a bizarre urge to tell Potter that I was perfectly happy to sit around talking to him all night if that was what he wanted. Even though his definition of talking seemed to consist largely of him criticising me and questioning my motives.

Horrified by the thought, I tried to check my temperature without being too obvious about it, pretending to brush aside a non-existent strand of displaced hair while attempting to check the temperature of my forehead with the back of my hand. The gesture was too unnatural, however, and all I managed to do was punch myself in the temple.

Sighing, I gave up.  It was obviously just one of those days.

"Are you okay?" Potter asked, staring at my forehead with a furrowed brow.

"Perfectly," I snapped.

“Are you sure?” His demeanour changed, an evil glint appearing in his eyes. “That looked like it hurt. Need me to kiss it better?”

“No!” I yelped, scooting my chair away as I felt my face and ears begin to burn.

He looked at me strangely. “I was only kidding,” he said very carefully, his voice tight.

I forced myself to relax. “I know,” I muttered, feeling extremely uncomfortable and a little ashamed. “Perhaps we should just get back to work.”

Potter stared at me for a moment, as if deciding whether to say something, before shrugging and turning back to his text book. “Fine.”

“Fine,” I repeated and tried to focus on the open page.

 

*

 

Despite the identity of my student, the next few hours were far more enjoyable than I had expected them to be. I hadn’t realised that teaching would promote such a strong feeling of superiority. There was something quite pleasing about being able to pass on knowledge to another person—so much so that I completely forgot about my original plan to feed Potter the wrong information. The last thing I wanted was to have anyone think that Potter had failed because I wasn’t a good enough tutor.

It was after eleven by the time we reached the end of the final chapter on the test. My neck was sore and stiff from bending over the textbook, and my eyes were tired from having to read over Potter’s shoulder. I felt mentally exhausted as well, from the strain of explaining NEWT level Potions concepts to someone who really had no business studying the subject. The school around us was unusually quiet, silent save for the creaks and groans of the building itself. Our fellow students had long since abandoned the teaching areas of Hogwarts for the comfort of their common rooms. It almost felt like Potter and I were alone in the castle, which was a less than pleasant thought.

“I can’t believe this stuff actually makes sense now.” Potter turned to look at me, his green eyes only inches from my own. “You’re a much better teacher than Snape is. If he explained things like you do, I wouldn’t struggle so much.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” I said, feeling rather flattered all the same.

“I don’t have a death wish,” he said, grinning at me. “Although, perhaps that’s not true. After all, I _am_ trusting you with this.”

"That’s not a death wish," I argued. "That's just being stupid."

"Probably." He shrugged. "I guess I'll find out when I get my marks."

“I guess,” I said, unwilling to give him the reassurance he so obviously wanted. Just because I had been kind enough to teach him the correct information, that didn’t mean I had to admit to it. Let him worry about whether or not he had been right to trust me with his academic future.

I frowned, not entirely comfortable with the thought that I had, on this occasion at least, been deserving of his trust. I seemed to be having a bad year when it came to Harry Potter. After so many years of practice, I had shaped hatred into an art form, but recently I had struggled when it came to playing out my part. I didn’t understand why things were different now. It wasn’t as though I ever intended to be nice—or even decent—to Potter; it just seemed to happen without me having any control over it. That was the worst part: feeling like the changes were impossible to resist.

“I still think you’re an idiot for suggesting me as a tutor in the first place,” I went on, trying to put my uneasiness aside. “Even for you, that’s overly trusting.”

“I’ve been thinking about that myself,” he admitted, a wry smile twisting his lips. “I guess I’ve grown fond of your insults. Either that or I just liked the idea of looking at you for a few hours.”

Suddenly very aware of how close we were, I jerked backwards, almost knocking Potter’s cauldron to the floor in my haste. “I don’t know why you’d want to do that,” I muttered, uncomfortable.

“No?” Potter’s tone was playful, but his cheeks were flushed and he kept his eyes firmly on his Potions text. “That’s not the Malfoy ego I know and love.” His cheeks reddened even more as he realised what he’d just said. “Erm... turn of phrase. You know what I mean.”

“Well I am exceedingly good looking,” I said quickly, keen to keep the conversation light.

He smiled weakly. “That’s more like it.”

“I’m no _Snape_ , though,” I teased, inexplicably eager to change the subject and remembering at just the right moment the way that Potter so often seemed caught up in daydreams during Potions class. He’d been getting worse, too. Several times recently, Snape had called on him and been met with embarrassed silence; when I’d turned to revel in Potter’s humiliation, he had been red-faced, his eyes darting away from my gaze.

“Snape?” he asked dubiously.

I nodded. “Come on,” I said. “There’s no point in denying it. You’re always mooning over him in class. Awful taste, if you ask me but, then again, you _are_ friends with Weasley.”

“Snape?” he repeated.

I nodded again.

“I think you must be getting your wires crossed there.” He looked at me in obvious amusement, his awkwardness forgotten. “I mean, sure, I guess the whole arrogant bastard thing is pretty hot, but Snape? Have you _seen_ his hair?”

“You seem to find an awful lot of people ‘hot’,” I said coolly, busying myself with stacking my books and notes into a neat pile.

Potter’s smile engulfed his face. “It’s not an exclusive adjective, you know.”

“Fine, but Snape?” I trained my gaze firmly on the desk in front of me.

“…is not hot. I thought we’d just established that. You’re starting to sound like you’re jealous,” he teased.

“Not likely!” I spluttered. “I hope you and Snape will be very happy together. Have you told Weasley that you think your _male_ teacher’s hot? I shouldn’t imagine he’d be too pleased to find out you like boys.” Smirking, I finally looked back up at Potter, awaiting his hurried denial.

“He doesn’t know about Snape,” Potter replied in an annoyingly calm voice, “but that’s because there isn’t anything to know—as I’ve told you multiple times. I assure you that any so-called mooning that occurs in Potions class is directed firmly _away_ from Professor Snape. As for me liking guys, well, Ron guessed that about two years ago.” Taking in the stunned expression on my face, he snickered. “Apparently I was asking too many questions about his brother Charlie. He found that part a bit weird, but he’s fine with it on the whole. Why wouldn’t he be?”

“Because it’s not normal?”

“I guess that depends on your definition of normal. Statistically, I suppose it isn’t. But it’s hardly rare. I mean, Seamus and Dean have been together for years. And I’m pretty sure Dumbledore never married for a reason.”

“Ew.” I felt nauseous at the mere suggestion that Dumbledore might have a sex life of any kind. “That’s disgusting.”

“So it’s not like I’m some sort of freak or anything,” he continued, ignoring my reaction. “Well,” he added, grinning sheepishly, “at least not in that sense.”

“I suppose it’s a Gryffindor thing,” I replied generously.

He looked at me in undisguised amusement. “Really? What about Crabbe and Goyle? What about _you_?”

“I’m not gay!” I protested. “And Crabbe and Goyle are just friends.”

“Okay.” He shrugged.

“Really. If you’d ever seen the kind of pictures Goyle draws, you’d know how ridiculous you sound.”

“Not Crabbe and Goyle, then.”

“Not me, either.”

“Okay,” he repeated. “I’m not arguing. For all I know, you’re engaged to Pansy Parkinson.”

“We broke up,” I said. “You know that.”

“Because you weren’t in love with her.”

“That doesn’t make me gay!” I took a deep breath. “Look, I don’t know how it works in Gryffindor, but Slytherins don’t get the _chance_ to be gay. You marry another pureblood and make sure you produce an heir.”

His face was unreadable. “What if you don’t want to?”

“Being a Malfoy isn’t about what you _want_. It’s about what you’re expected to do.”

“What if that makes you unhappy?”

I shrugged. “You hope that you’ll learn to like it, I guess.”

Potter frowned. “That sounds pretty depressing to me. So what happens now that you and Pansy aren’t together? Do you have to marry Bulstrode?”

"I bloody well do not," I spluttered. "I'd sooner marry _you_. She looks like a troll."

“I _have_ noticed.” Potter grinned. “But I’ll take that as another compliment. Two in one night! Obviously, for all my apparent faults, I still manage to be less troll-like than Millicent Bulstrode.”

"It wouldn't be too hard," I pointed out, not wanting him to get carried away.

“I’ll take what I can get.” He stood and began to load his books and supplies into his cauldron. “After all, you’re not likely to ever give me a _proper_ compliment. I can’t picture you stopping me in the hallway to tell me that I have lovely eyes.”

 _But they_ are _lovely_ , I thought immediately, to my complete horror. Was I becoming ill again? “Not likely,” I said instead, pushing the disturbing thought from my mind. “Although it could be fun to tell you it, one day, just to mess with your mind.”

“That’d be nice,” he said mildly. “Anyway, I’m exhausted after cramming all of that stuff into my head and I have Quidditch practice early tomorrow morning. I really need to head to the dorms before I fall asleep right here. Thanks for the help, Draco. I won’t be too grateful until I can be sure this isn’t just another attempt to have me expelled.”

I smiled. “Only fair. And I guess you’re welcome. It wasn’t as bad as I was expecting, really.”

“Good.” He returned my smile, a touch of colour returning to his cheeks.” So… I guess I’ll see you in Potions.”

“I guess so.”

Lifting one hand from the pile of Potions paraphernalia filling his arms, he gave me an awkward wave. “Bye,” he said briskly, then turned and left, his robes swirling behind him.

“Bye,” I repeated, even though I knew he couldn't hear.

 

*

 

While teachers’ desks generally suffered from a bland uniformity, Harry Potter’s desk was always more of an enigma. His supplies were all of good make, expensive brands that few could afford, but they were poorly taken care of and arranged on the desk’s surface in a pattern that could only make sense to him. There were no subtle references to interests—not even the name of a Quidditch team written on a quill case—and yet the effect was not one of sterility, like with Granger’s perfectly-ordered desk. It was almost as though the visible level of clutter was a mere distraction, hiding some other, more truthful, layer.

Even Potter’s attention appeared to have two tiers. As Snape rambled on about Potions, our recent test, and how appalling we all were as students, Potter’s eyes stayed steadily on our professor’s face. His hands, however, were occupied with an attempt to balance his quill on the rim of his inkpot, while Weasley, beside him, looked on with interest.

I returned my own attention to Snape just in time to see him produce a pile of papers from the tatty bag he had placed beside the front desk at the start of class. Immediately, I began to feel the rush of excited anticipation that I usually felt at the prospect of having a Potions test returned. Although I was confident in my abilities, it was always gratifying to see another A+ marked in red at the top of the page.

As he moved around the room, distributing marked papers, Snape kept up a steady stream of comments—most of them derogatory. “Suffered from a temporary bout of amnesia, did we, Longbottom?” he drawled, before moving over a few desks. “You seem to have mistaken this for an art test,” he sneered at Goyle, who didn’t look at all sheepish about the elaborate doodles that I could easily see from the desk next to him. At least the women were wearing clothes this time.

"Good work as always, Malfoy," he muttered begrudgingly, placing my own sheet in front of me.

"Thank you, Professor," I replied, and quickly turned to the mark.

Ninety-eight. I frowned, wondering where I had lost the two points, before turning in my seat to see if I could tell by Potter’s reaction whether my tutoring had made any difference at all to his performance on the test. Almost all of the papers had been returned by the time that Snape got to Potter’s. He didn’t have a comment for his least-liked student, instead just dropping the test on his desk and quickly heading over to berate Pansy about her misspelling of ingredients.

Potter gingerly picked up the paper, only turning to the final page after being nudged by a curious Weasley, who seemed more interested in Potter’s mark than Potter was himself. As he stared at the sheet in front of him, though, Potter’s expression changed from fear to disbelief, and then finally settled on complete elation. Eyes wide, he showed his mark to Weasley, who looked suitably impressed.

Satisfied that my reputation for Potions excellence would remain intact if someone should find out about our little tutoring session, I was about to return my attention to my missing two marks when Potter looked straight over at me, catching my eye. He mouthed something—presumably his mark—but I couldn’t make out the words. I shrugged and shook my head at him and he obviously understood my gesture because he looked stumped for a moment and then simply lifted the paper itself and waved it in my direction. Even with him wiggling it about like that, I could easily read the mark. Eighty-one per cent. Amazing.

Without thinking, I smiled and gave him a thumbs up. He grinned back at me, looking as though he was about to fall right of his chair from sheer excitement.

Shaking my head again, I turned back to my own paper, but was soon distracted by Snape, who had returned to the front of the room.

“Apart from a couple of students, you should all feel very ashamed of yourselves,” he said, obviously enjoying the chance to criticise so many people at once. “Class is over. I suggest you all spend the evening studying. For what little good it’ll do.” With that gloomy remark, he gathered his belongings and left the room without so much as another glance at our class.

Bemused, I packed up my own things—only after determining that the lost two per cent had been the result of an annoying spelling mistake—and pushed back my chair. As I stood, however, I was suddenly hit from the side with so much force that I was almost knocked back into my seat.

“What the hell?” I grumbled, as I became aware of strong arms wrapped tightly around my torso.

“Thank you,” came a familiar voice that was somewhat muffled by my shoulder.

“Could you please stop that, Potter?” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm, but hearing a slight shake within the tone nonetheless.

“Stop what?” He lifted his head, regarding me with wide, excited eyes that were a little too close to my own for my liking.

“ _Hugging_ me,” I snapped. “Are you deliberately trying to ruin my reputation?”

He released his grip on my body, but did not back away, instead remaining well within touching distance. “There’s no one here to see,” he pointed out, gesturing widely to the room, which had, indeed, somehow become empty in the time it had taken me to locate my mistake.

“That’s not the point,” I said.

“Oh, and what is?” Potter teased. “Does being hugged by another guy make you uneasy?”

“No,” I threw back. “Just being hugged by you.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I realised how open to misinterpretation they could be. “I mean, because I hate you and all,” I added quickly.

He rolled his eyes. “Of course. Why else?”

“I should go,” I said, taking a quick look at my watch to support the statement.

“Sure.” His amused expression faded into a warm smile. “But thank you. Really. I’ve never even come near to getting a Potions mark like that before.”

“So I’m brilliant,” I said, shrugging. “Tell me something we didn’t already know.”

Potter’s smile grew a little broader. “I’ll work on it.” He lifted a hand, as if to touch me on the shoulder, but obviously thought better of it, letting it drop again and turning away without another word.

It didn’t feel like enough.

I waited until he was almost at the door to the hallway before speaking again, collecting my possessions in the meantime. “Oh, and Potter?” I said, keeping my tone light.

He turned, his face curious. “What?”

"You may be rubbish at Potions, but you do have lovely eyes."

I paused for a moment to revel in the expression of utter shock and confusion that covered his face, before quickly sweeping past his frozen form.

As I made my way back to the Slytherin dungeons, however, the small victory provided little comfort. Instead, I was tormented by the still-present feeling of Potter’s arms wrapped tightly around me and the heat of his body pressed close against my own.


	6. The False Prophecy

Potter’s breath was hot against my lips as he stared unblinkingly into my eyes. “Say it.” His pupils, wide with desire, seemed to taunt me, freed from their usual cover of round, black glasses. “Say it.”

I closed my eyes against the demand, my breath heavy as it escaped my lungs in shaky gasps. “No.”

A light, mischievous laugh drifted to my ears as though over a great distance. The pounding of my heart—or was it his?—flooded my consciousness. His scent engulfed me: heady, intoxicating, maddening. And fingertips. They were soft on the bare flesh of my arm, prompting a shiver of pleasure and unease. Of him.

“Say it.”

Heat flowed from his body, warming his caresses and sparking in his eyes. My hands moved as though they were not my own, twisting in his hair and demonstrating through action the things I would never dare to say. His mouth remained so close to mine that I could almost believe that I knew its taste. I felt drunk. Hypnotised.

“No.”

He smirked then, a smile I would have been proud of, his fringe falling forward to obscure the full impact of his lust-lidded eyes. But there was more in his gaze: a hint of respect, of acceptance, and of something else that was too bright for me to look at it for long. As my fingernails scraped along his scalp, the smirk faded and his lips parted. I could feel the soft huff of his breath against my cheek. A challenge. A demand.

I let my hand fall from his hair so that it could map the curves and angles of his face. I drew pictures with a fingertip on the smooth surface of his skin and trailed my thumb along the line of his jaw, before letting it linger on the soft swelling of his lips. A slight dart of his tongue—perhaps accidental, probably calculated—flooded my finger with damp and sensation and forever more _heat_.

A mouth like that just had to be kissed.

And I did. My hands found and claimed his in a possessive tangle of fingers. My eyes closed, but I could still see him, so strong was the image burned into my mind. Everything else faded into the kiss. It was overwhelming: his taste, his touch, his mere existence. I lost myself in the communion of lips and tongues and in the pound of two heartbeats, chest to chest.

He held me as though he needed me and touched me as though he _wanted_ me. It was in his eyes when I awoke enough to see it, and in the gentle stroke of his fingertips down the pathway of my spine. Up and down. Down and up. Closer, ever closer.

Hands tore at our clothing and it seemed there were too many until I recognised two of them as my own. They burned white against the black of his robes and then upon the flush of his skin. He sighed as I pressed my lips softly to his neck and moaned as I traced the contour of his nipple, learning every ridge and valley of his body. And then a quiet whimper as I skirted the waistband of his underwear and eventually slid curious fingers underneath. I memorised the lines of his body as I would a Potions formula and he answered my exploration with caresses of his own.

The kisses deepened. We were naked, now, although I couldn’t remember how. It all seemed so implausible. But the sensation of his body—his _whole_ body—beneath my own was intoxicating. Our arousal burned between us, our mouths joining and our fingers locking within tousled hair as need drew us ever closer. There was nothing I could do but press into his embrace and into the rock of his hips. We thrusted against each other even as I tried to remember the circumstances that had brought us here.

And that was him I could feel. _Him_. Him curling within my arms, him whispering my name, his erection sliding ever faster against my own as the set of his eyes grew ever darker and ever more glazed. Holding me. Pulling me tight against him, his hands claiming me just as his mouth did.

There was nothing but him and sensation and the double drumbeat of our hearts. And, as his hips rose to meet me, I could feel myself getting closer, feel him beginning to tense beneath me, our mouths gasping for air and for release.

Closer…

“Say it.”

Closer…

 

*

 

I woke.

My body had not succumbed to a cold sweat, as would have been expected after such a nightmare. Instead, if felt as though every inch of me was on fire, my limbs complaining about the abrupt awakening even as my mind struggled to come to terms with the horrors that my subconscious was capable of. I felt dirty, and not just because of the fine layer of perspiration that was covering every inch of my skin. It was not the first time I’d woken from an explicit dream achingly hard and overheated—I was seventeen and male, after all—but never before had Harry Potter invaded my subconscious in such an intimate way. I didn’t like it.

Glancing at the clock beside my bed, I was relieved to discover that it was almost time to get up. I needed a shower—both physically and mentally. I briefly contemplated making the trek to the prefects’ bathroom so that I could attempt to drown my memories of the dream in luxury, but soon discarded the idea. Knowing my luck, a relaxing bubble bath would just send me right back to sleep, and I couldn’t risk the chance of my dream resuming where it had left off. Besides, I was in no state to be wandering the halls.

I retrieved a fresh towel from my trunk and made my way to the bathroom as quickly and quietly as I could manage. I didn’t want to field any of the questions that my appearance might have prompted should one of my roommates have awoken before I could get out of sight.

The cool sterility of the bathroom was pleasantly calming, and the splash of the water against the base of the shower seemed to clear my mind a little. I did not bother with the hot tap, relishing the feel of the icy spray on my body as I stepped underneath the flow. The freezing water seemed an appropriate punishment for my brain’s cruel betrayal. It also helped to cool the heat that had been pumping through my veins, and to quell the other disconcerting side effects of such a lurid dream.

I stayed in the shower for some time, washing my hair and attempting to remove every last imagined trace of Potter from my skin. I could still smell his scent in the air around me, still feel the touch of his fingers against my skin. I have always had very elaborate and sensual dreams but, on this occasion, the lingering details were far from appreciated. It was bad enough that I could remember the generalities of the dream without also having to contend with the specifics.

 _I wonder what he was trying to get me to say_ , I mused as I finally turned off the water and reached for my towel. The thought brought with it a fresh rush of images, however, and I had to fight to clear my head as I dried off.

By the time I returned to the bedroom, my towel wrapped tightly around my waist, the others were beginning to stir. I quickly located and put on my school uniform, and then arranged my bedclothes into a semblance of tidiness. It was the job of the house elves to make the beds, really, but the tangled sheets and blankets had been an unwelcome reminder of the dream that had twisted them into such a state in the first place.

I was lacing my shoes before any of my roommates woke up enough to speak.

“You’re up early,” Goyle finally said, regarding me with one half-opened eye. His voice was thick with sleep.

“I had a nightmare,” I replied briskly, trying to insert a note of ‘further questions will not be appreciated’ into my voice.

Unfortunately, Goyle was never one to pick up on tonal subtleties. “What about?” he asked, managing to pry open the other eye in his interest. “Was it the one where you’re being chased by a dragon, and you drop your wand into a volcano, so you can’t use magic? And then you fall off a cliff and another dragon catches you, but it’s only a little dragon so it—“

I cut him off before I was forced to delve too deeply into the inner workings of his mind. “No,” I replied, smiling slightly. “Not that one. Although I’m sure I’m missing out on something very special.”

“It’s not special. It’s scary,” Goyle grumbled, shutting both eyes again in what I interpreted as a lazy act of defiance.

Crabbe was not so easily distracted, however. “Well?” he prompted. “What _was_ it about then?”

“Potter,” I admitted, although I had no intention of ever revealing the details of his involvement.

“Ew,” Zabini said, swinging his legs out of bed. “That _is_ a nightmare.”

I nodded benignly before taking another look at my bedside clock. “I might go down to breakfast early,” I told my roommates, picking up my Charms textbook from the floor beside my bed. “I could do with a head start on that chapter Flitwick wants us to have read by Monday’s class.”

“It’s too early for reading,” Crabbe complained, visibly horrified at the thought of doing anything akin to work before noon.

“You always think it’s too early for reading,” I said fondly, grabbing a quill and a notebook, just in case.

“True,” he admitted, finally managing to summon up enough strength to get out of bed in a clumsy flurry of limbs accompanied by a loud chorus of yawns. “But I don’t need to read, do I? I’ll always have you around to tell me the important bits.”

“Don’t tell the teachers that,” I said. “And go have a shower. I can smell you from here.”

“Oh ha bloody ha,” he retorted, but he sniffed his armpits before locating a towel. His nose wrinkled a little in distaste.

I ushered him into the bathroom before turning my attention to Goyle, who had burrowed back under the covers. “Don’t go back to sleep,” I said, shaking him. “You’ll miss breakfast. Last time that happened, you tried to eat my favourite quill.”

“It tasted like ink,” he complained, but he pulled back the covers anyway, his eyes squinting as they were met by the bright morning sunlight filling the room. “Save me a seat at the table?”

“I always do, don’t I?” I said, and he grunted something that I couldn’t quite make out.

Not bothering to say goodbye to Zabini and Nott, who were both perfectly capable of getting themselves up, I left the dormitory and made my way towards the Great Hall, my Charms textbook and stationery tucked firmly under my left arm.

When I arrived at my destination, I found all of the seats still empty, save for a solitary female figure at the far end of the Gryffindor table. Granger. I should have guessed that she would be first to breakfast. She probably thought we were going to be marked.

The doors clicked closed behind me and the near-empty expanse of the hall amplified the sound, causing Granger to look up from the book she had been reading. I raised one hand in a sardonic greeting and, enjoying the glare she gave in return, decided to take a seat as far away from Potter’s sidekick as possible. She seemed equally satisfied with the arrangement, merely tossing her bushy hair back from her face and returning her attention to her book.

Being alone in a room with Granger was quite unsettling, however, regardless of how large that room was and how far away I had managed to sit. Not only was she a Mudblood and an annoying little know-it-all, but she was also Potter’s best friend and therefore about the worst possible person to be sharing air with when I was trying my hardest to pretend he didn’t exist.

Pushing my quill and notebook to one side, I opened my Charms text and spent the next ten minutes reading the same sentence over and over again, without gaining even the faintest understanding of its meaning. While I wouldn’t allow myself to think about the dream itself, the very act of _not_ thinking about it was enough of a strain to take up most of my concentration. And, although I was able to keep the dream out of my foremost thoughts, even my most concerted efforts could not remove the lingering, nagging knowledge that something was lurking at the very edges of my mind.

Eventually, I just gave up. The effort not to think was beginning to become just as painful as the thoughts themselves. And so I let them flow, hoping that allowing them to surface would speed up their exit from my mind.

It felt as though I could remember every vivid second of the dream: every touch, every word—even the more irrelevant things like the size of the room and the colour of the walls. It was odd that I had such strong memories of what had been, for all intents and purposes, no more than a disturbing wet dream cut short. Normally I forgot the details of such dreams by morning, leaving only a vague feeling of satisfaction. I remembered little of most of my dreams for long after waking, for that matter, which made my full recall of this one even more annoying. There was no feeling of satisfaction this time, only the fear that the dream would haunt me until the day that I died.

There were too many questions to be able to consider them all. The greatest were unavoidable, of course, questions like ‘why on earth did I dream that about _Potter_?’ and ‘why was the dream version of me so horribly content with the goings-on?’ I didn’t have any answers, though. I knew I couldn’t be harbouring a secret crush on Potter, because I still seemed to be sane in every other sense. The logical conclusion was that it had been completely random: a backfiring of synapses with a nightmarish result. Dreaming about Potter had been bad luck, nothing more.

The thought did little to ease my unsettled mind. If it had been a random incident, it could happen again, and that was a prospect that I didn’t much like. Once was bad enough. Twice and I’d never be able to get the images out of my head.

Shuddering, I slammed my textbook shut, causing Granger to look up just as the large doors behind me opened and Weasley entered the room.

“You’re a little early for breakfast, aren’t you, Malfoy?” he asked, pausing beside my seat in order to scowl at me from a short range.

“I woke early,” I said, “and I had some work to do. Is that a crime?”

“Of course not,” he snapped. “I’m just surprised to see you out in public without your henchmen at your side.”

“My henchmen were in dire need of a shower,” I replied calmly, “and I hardly need help to deal with the likes of you and Granger. What’s wrong? Am I intruding on a secret lovers’ tryst? Would you like me to leave?”

My words must have struck a chord, because Weasley’s entire body seemed to shift into denial mode. His eyes downcast, he began to jiggle up and down nervously, his cheeks becoming red. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t,” I said, drawling the words. “But I think I should warn you: Potter’s getting pretty suspicious.”

Weasley looked worried for a moment before his expression realigned itself into a self-satisfied smirk. “What would _you_ know about what Harry thinks?” he asked. “Nothing, that’s what. It’s no wonder he always wins when you try your stupid plots to get him expelled. You don’t know him at all.”

I stared at him for a moment, keeping my expression blank, and then pushed back my chair and stood. I collected my textbook and supplies under my arm before speaking again. “I dare say you’re right on that count,” I said mildly. “But, for now, I think I’ll find out what’s keeping my so-called henchmen… and leave the two of you to your sordid little romance. Keep an eye out for Dumbledore, though, won’t you? Or, more to the point, Potter.”

Smirking, I turned and headed out of the room, my spirits buoyed by the expression on Weasley’s face. I felt almost at peace for the first time all morning. The dream still tugged at my thoughts, but soon it would fade and I could be done with the whole alarming experience entirely.

 

*

 

I hated the Divination classroom. I could never decide what was more annoying: the heat or the appalling decoration. It didn’t look like a normal classroom. Instead, it resembled the sitting room of an elderly witch, cluttered as it was with the sort of knick-knacks and furniture that always seemed to go hand-in-hand with age spots, blue pencilled eyebrows and an all-pervading smell of cat.

It amazed me that students were expected to learn in such an unproductive environment. It was always too warm in that room, so much so that it was hard not to fall asleep. It might have been bearable if we had been provided with an excellent teacher, but Trelawney was far from that. And yet I had never dropped the subject, much to many people’s surprise. The simple explanation was that my mother had always held an impressive talent for the arts of divination and it was for her sake that I had continued the class through to my final year. I had little ability in the area myself but, over the years, I had grown very adept at making things up.

The one thing that I could say in Divination class’s defence was that we were, at least, never forced to endure the heat and throw pillows in the presence of students from another house. It seemed as though I spent most of my time those days surrounded by Gryffindors. Now that even my nights had been desecrated, it was quite a relief to know that my time spent in Divination would be blessedly free of Potter’s presence.

Professor Trelawney made her entrance in her usual ghostly manner, stepping out from the shadows as though to surprise students who had seen the act hundreds of times before. She gazed sharply around the room for a few seconds, her eyes pausing on Millicent Bulstrode for long enough to warn her to stay clear of poisonous spiders. I thought that went without saying, but Trelawney seemed proud of the declaration, smiling faintly as she lowered her slight frame into an overstuffed armchair, which was adorned with lace doilies and scattered with floral embroidered cushions.

“Today we are to begin work on a new topic, my dears,” she announced, her tone suggesting that she expected us to be impressed and excited by the revelation. “I shall be giving you a short test on the runes next Wednesday but, in the meantime, we shall be moving on to dreams.”

Already half lulled into sleep by the warm stuffiness of the room, I was immediately jolted wide awake, my stomach lurching forebodingly. “Dreams?” I repeated out loud.

Trelawney looked at me as though she thought me insane, stupid, or a combination of both. “Yes, dear, dreams,” she said. “A most interesting subject. Used by magic users and Muggles alike for countless millennia.”

“It can’t be very reliable if the Muggles believe in it,” I muttered under my breath.

Sitting in the chairs on either side of me, Crabbe and Goyle laughed approvingly, earning them a annoyed look from the professor.

“The analysis of dreams is a complicated art,” she continued. “One cannot judge every word or image at face value. For example, to dream that you were flying is rarely likely to foreshadow an imminent sprouting of wings. It might, however, herald an upcoming release of some kind.”

“How do we tell the difference?” Pansy asked, frowning.

Trelawney began to answer, but my mind was already drifting away from the classroom. My body flooded with relief as I contemplated the professor’s opening words. Obviously I had been making far too much out of what was no more than a symbolic dream. Instead of succumbing to a nocturnal admission of some kind of previously unknown lust for Potter, I had merely dreamed a sign of something else to come. Something that didn’t involve Potter and a disconcerting lack of clothes.

The realisation that I hadn’t gone completely insane after all was a pleasant one, even if it were unlikely that I’d learn enough in one Divination class to work out the true meaning of my nightmare. I decided that it was probably safe to assume that it had something to do with hate, or frustration, or another suitably malicious emotion.

“…which will not be an easy task,” Trelawney was saying when I turned my attention back to the class. “And now, my dears, if I could garner a few examples from _your_ dream lives, I’ll run through a handful of demonstrations in front of the class. Miss Greengrass?”

I couldn’t help but smile a little as Daphne described a dream she’d had the previous night in which she had been riding a unicorn through the Hogwarts grounds, only to fall off just outside the school building. The mere thought of Daphne landing on her designer-clad arse was enough to make anyone giggle a little.

Trelawney, however, was nodding thoughtfully, her expression worried. “The message of this dream is perfectly clear, dear,” she announced in a sombre tone of voice. “The unicorn symbolises purity and your fall indicates a loss.” She shook her head dolefully. “I would predict a loss of purity and innocence within the month, possibly within the school grounds.”

“Daphne lost her purity _long_ ago,” Goyle wisecracked.

“And it’s not the sort of thing you can just find again,” Crabbe added, leering across the room at her.

Daphne glared at them in disgust. “As if you two would know,” she retorted.

“The whole school knows,” I remarked mildly, feeling only the briefest pang of contrition when her face crumpled.

“I think we’d better move on,” Trelawney said quickly. “I am getting a premonition that failure to do so could end in a argument.”

“That’s not a premonition. That’s common sense,” I remarked to Crabbe, who nodded his agreement.

If Trelawney heard me, she chose to ignore the comment, instead staying focused on the task at hand. “Mister Malfoy,” she began, smiling encouragingly. “What did _you_ dream about last night?”

I froze. There was no way that I was going to admit last night’s travesty to my entire Divination class. The mere thought of doing so was enough to make me feel quite nauseous. “No idea,” I said quickly. “I can’t remember having any dreams at all.”

Goyle threw me a curious glance. “But you said—”

I gave him a look of warning. “No, I didn’t,” I hissed.

He looked confused, but knew me well enough to understand that the pointed look on my face was a warning to keep his mouth shut. “Okay, Draco. Whatever you say.”

“Surely you remember at least _one_ small dream,” Trelawney said, showing no sign of having noticed my dialogue with Goyle.

“I’m afraid not,” I lied glibly. “I tend to forget any dreams I have shortly after waking—if I even remember them at all.”

“Most inconvenient,” she said.

“That’s exactly what I’ve always said.” I regarded her with wide eyes, throwing in a slight tremble of my lower lip for extra impact. “I’m sorry I can’t contribute to the class.”

Trelawney smiled at me, her eyes kind. “It cannot be helped dear, although you might find it helpful to use a dream diary in future: a notebook kept beside the bed for the express purpose of recording dreams upon awakening. You might struggle with these classes otherwise.”

“I’ll definitely keep that in mind,” I replied, keeping my expression earnest.

To my right, Goyle snorted loudly.

Trelawney spun to face him, peering myopically at him from behind her glasses. "I am pleased that you find our new topic so amusing, Mister Goyle," she said coolly. "Perhaps you could extend this enthusiasm to relating one of your dreams to the class."

“Sure.” Goyle shrugged, always happy to grab the spotlight for a moment. Being friends with someone like me, it didn’t happen very often. “I had a really good one last night. Do I have to give names?”

A hint of worry began to creep onto Trelawney’s face, as a few of my classmates snickered in anticipation. “I suppose not, dear.”

“Well, in that case, I was dreaming about a certain Hufflepuff sixth former,” Goyle began, his mouth curving into a lecherous smile. “I’ve never really talked to her or even thought about her much before, and I’ve definitely never had a crush on her or anything, so it seems quite strange that she’d turn up in one of my dreams, stark naked and talking about marshmallows.”

"Marshmallows?" I asked.

"Yeah. There was a campfire involved," he explained. "Anyway, things led to other things and we ended up shagging. But then she turned into a giant marshmallow and I woke up all sticky."

“Yes. Well.” Trelawney looked more than a little flustered by the end of Goyle’s tale, but she seemed determined not to let her embarrassment affect an opportunity to teach. “The recurring theme of marshmallows is a little too complicated for your first lesson,” she began.

 _In other words, she has no idea what it means herself_ , I thought.

“But the rest of the content is very simple,” she continued. “The presence of the sex act here does not predict that you will find yourself in this particular position—“

I snickered and Trelawney fixed me with a disappointed look.

“Rather, you can look forward to new emotional developments with the person in question,” she said. “You say that you don’t have a crush on the girl at this point in time, but it is highly likely that you will be thinking about her in a non-platonic way by the end of the month.”

"Well, that's no surprise, is it?" Goyle said. "Not after she's been parading around naked in my dreams."

My classmates burst into loud laughter, but Trelawney didn’t seem to find his comment anywhere near as amusing. “Intercourse in dreams is generally linked to emotional rather than sexual growth,” she said tightly, looking as though she desperately wanted to be anywhere but in that classroom, talking to final year Slytherins about sexy dreams. “You are far more likely to fall in love with this girl than to merely fall in lust.”

Goyle looked horrified. “But what about all the _other_ girls I dream about shagging?” he yelped, earning him another round of laughter. “I can’t fall in love with all of them!”

Trelawney closed her eyes and took a visible deep breath before opening them again. “The relevant matter here is the lack of precedent, _dear_ ,” she explained, speaking very slowly. “It’s your usual lack of a relationship with this girl that sets it aside from more carnal, hormone-induced dreams. It’s a delicate difference, but a vital one, and it aptly demonstrates the difficulty innate to the art of dream interpretation. One must always look out for peculiar signs, such as a romantic dream about a stranger, or even about an enemy.”

She continued to talk, but it was all becoming a little too much to take in, and I found myself beginning to sink back into my own thoughts. Trelawney’s last statement echoed particularly loudly in my mind, much to my discomfort.

I’d never given much credit to her teachings, just as I had never given much credit to her predictions. One time, back in fourth year, she had predicted that a rogue potion would turn my hair a permanent mousey brown. For several weeks, Potions class had meant checking every ingredient multiple times and staying well clear of Crabbe and Goyle’s bubbling brews. It never happened, of course. The closest I came to disaster was when one of Longbottom’s explosions covered my hair in grey-brown ash.

It wasn’t just Trelawney’s reliability, however. No matter how hard I worked in Divination class, I still failed to produce anything that could even remotely pass as a correct prediction. Considering the equally poor efforts of my classmates, I had long since come to the conclusion that divination was not so much a teachable skill as it was an occasional talent or vocation. And, while my mother obviously had that talent in spades, people like Trelawney and myself were better suited to reading the long-term weather forecasts and relying on common sense in all other matters.

I had held these beliefs for quite some time, and held them very firmly, but suddenly, in the light of my terrible dream, I began to question whether there might be something in our Divination teaching after all. Trelawney’s words started to make a strange kind of sense, and I turned every one of them over and over in my mind, weighing them against each other and against my own unease. And I didn’t like the way they seemed to point.

I refused to see a misplaced outburst of 17-year-old hormones as a prediction that I would develop romantic feelings for Harry Potter. It was bad enough thinking there might be something sexual behind the dream; to think that feelings might be involved was a hundred times worse. The idea of it nagged away at my brain, nauseating me, the concept remaining horrible no matter how many times the same thoughts spun around inside my head. Nothing that Muggles believed in could be truly magical, I told myself. I refused to believe in Muggle prophecies and I refused to fall in love with Potter. It was a simple as that.

As Trelawney's voice continued to drone on in the background, however, I couldn't help but wonder why my internal voice didn't sound a little more convincing. Putting it down to a lack of decent, restful sleep, I tried to push any rogue thoughts of uncertainty from my head and returned my concentration to the lesson.

But something still nagged at the back of my mind.

 

*

 

“I wish our homework was always this easy.” Goyle appeared to be alarmingly close to bouncing down the corridor as we made our way to the Great Hall for lunch. “I reckon someone should ask Trelawney to have a word with Snape.”

"I don't see what's so good about it," I grumbled. "What I dream about is none of her business."

I was in a foul mood. Trelawney had announced at the end of class that we were all to write a detailed account of a recent dream for homework. If that hadn't been bad enough, we were then supposed to spend our next Divination lesson reading those descriptions out to the class, so that they could be analysed, allegorised and made fun of. Okay, so she didn’t include the last bit, but anyone with a brain knew that it would happen.

Such an assignment would have annoyed me at the best of times. Life at Hogwarts was low on privacy, with its shared dormitories and bathrooms and its endless parade of curious first years. Sometimes it felt like my dreams were about the only things at school that were mine and mine alone. I would always have balked at the thought of sharing them with a class, but on that day the idea was especially grating. The Potter dream had somehow blocked out all of my memories of prior dreams, completely filling that area of my mind in all its terrible clarity.

I was not about to write _that_ dream down on paper for just anyone to see and nor did I intend to read it out to my class. Even if I removed the names, there was always the risk that someone would realise I had been dreaming about another boy. And then it would get back to my father—things always got back to my father—and I didn’t even want to think about what would happen after that. Besides, even if I changed the names, I would still know exactly who the dream was about. The last thing I wanted was to give it the permanence awarded by writing it down for class. Which left me with one other option: make it up.

"What happens if you can never remember your dreams?" Crabbe asked as we rounded a corner.

"But you _do_ remember yours," I replied, confused. "You were telling me about the one set in the land of custard tarts only yesterday. The one where you turned into an Eccles cake."

"Oh, I wasn't thinking of me," Crabbe said. "I was just curious; that's all."

I rolled my eyes at him before returning my attention to our surrounds. For the hour, the halls were surprisingly quiet. I was about to produce the perfect disparaging response to Crabbe’s comment when a familiar figure appeared through a doorway on the left side of the corridor.

Potter.

My stomach seemed to be doing some kind of impromptu gymnastics practice as I forced myself to meet his eyes, trying desperately not to let the dream enter my mind. My will could only stretch so far, however, and I began to feel my cheeks colour at the mere memory of what I had dreamed we’d done together and, worse, how it had felt.

“Draco.” Potter nodded at me, ignoring Crabbe and Goyle.

"Potter," I replied.

His eyes darted over my features, taking in what I am sure was a very strained expression. “Are you okay?” he asked, his brows twisting together in a knot of concern.

"What’s your game, Potter?" Goyle sneered.

"Yeah," Crabbe added. "Why don't you just piss off back to the Gryffindor tower where you belong?"

“Because it’s lunchtime, and I’m hungry,” Potter replied mildly. “And, as for the other question, I didn’t realise I _was_ playing games.”

He teamed the second answer with a pointed look in my direction, and I could feel my cheeks upgrading to a brighter shade of pink.

Goyle opened his mouth as though to say something in reply, but I silenced him with a quick look. "Don't worry about it," I said quietly to my two friends. "I can handle Potter. You might as well go on ahead. Save me a seat."

Crabbe and Goyle looked dubious, but they rarely questioned my directives. They each gave Potter a fearsome glare before leaving for the Great Hall, quickly disappearing around the next corner.

"You can handle me, can you?" Potter looked amused.

“Of course. I can handle anything. Well… anything that doesn’t involve Divination homework. Trolls and dragons I’m fine with.”

“Oh?” He looked interested. “You should’ve dropped that subject long ago.”

"What, like you?" I asked, catching the inference.

"Exactly." He smiled. "What does Trelawney have you doing that's so unbearable, anyway?"

"Dreams," I muttered, avoiding his eyes.

“Dreams? That doesn’t sound too bad to me.” He frowned. “Aunt Petunia was into that kind of thing for a while. Someone gave her a book about it for her birthday and…” His voice trailed off as a knowing glint began to shine within his eyes. “Oh, so _that’s_ your problem. You can’t bear the thought of studying anything that Muggles do too.”

"No, it's not that," I said, shaking my head.

"What is it, then?"

I winced. I really should have anticipated that question, instead of being so quick to reject the alternative he had offered. “Erm, actually, it _is_ the Muggle thing,” I said quickly, attempting to cover my mistake.

He looked at me, his eyes thoughtful. "No, it isn't."

"What would you know?" I snapped.

"I know that you're lying," he replied simply. "Your eyebrow is doing the twitchy thing."

" _What_ twitchy thing?" I raised a hand to my left eyebrow in horror.

“Don’t worry.” He smiled evilly. “I’m sure it doesn’t do it _every_ time you lie. You’d have a six pack on your forehead if that were the case.”

I gave him my least amused look. “Oh, very droll, Potter. You should think about a career as a comedian if the Boy Who Lived gig ever falls through. And besides, it’s not a twitch. It’s a vital element of my innocent expression.”

Potter laughed, the sound echoing off the stone walls of the corridor. “Oh, that’s brilliant,” he spluttered. “A fantastic way to deflect attention. People aren’t as dumb as you’d like to think they are, Draco. Anyone who sees _you_ looking innocent is immediately going to start wondering what the hell you’re up to.”

"It works on you," I said snidely, and turned to leave.

"I'm sure it does," he said softly, and there was something in the tone of his voice that made me pause.

"I guess it has to work on _somebody_." My back remained to him as I pretended to become vastly interested in the tapestry on the wall in front of me.

"So, what's your problem in Divination, then?" Potter asked finally, his voice jarringly bright.

I couldn't work out whether the change of subject was a victory or a loss. "We're meant to write up one of our dreams and then read it out to the class next lesson."

I could almost hear him shrugging, his confusion was so evident in his response. "What's so bad about that?"

I spun to face him and my breath caught for a moment as the face in front of me twisted and merged with the dream face that shone like a beacon in my mind. “It’s none of their business,” I said, my body tensing. “Dreams are private. And it’s not as though you can trust the things, anyway.”

“I shouldn’t think you could trust _anything_ Trelawney tried to teach,” Potter said calmly, “but if you’re so worried about it—and Merlin knows why anyone would be—why don’t you just make something up?”

“That’s the plan,” I said, “but I don’t know where to start.”

“No? What about a generic nightmare? Spiders, snakes, creepy crawlies of various kinds…”

“Those are nightmares?”

He laughed, but the sound died on his lips as he stared at me in amazement. “You’re actually serious, aren’t you?”

I nodded.

“Yes, Draco, for normal people, those are nightmares.”

It occurred to me that he was awfully fond of using my first name of late. It bothered me less than I would have liked. “I can’t really see myself regaling my Slytherin classmates with a nightmare about _snakes_ ,” I said.

“Okay, you may have a point there. You lot are so weird.” He was silent for a moment, but then his face lit up, his eyes glowing with the onset of a fresh idea. “Of course!”

Grabbing me by the robes—and I was _not_ going to think about what that had led to in my dream—Potter dragged me to the side of the corridor. He deposited me right beside a rusted suit of armour, which was, I supposed, intended as some form of cover. In broad daylight and the middle of the lunch rush, I didn’t think it was likely to do any good.

“I know what you can do,” he whispered, as though he was divulging some kind of secret. One hand was still clutching my robes and his face was far too close to my own.

My stomach churned. “Well, spit it out, then,” I snapped.

“Say you dreamt about me dying horribly,” he said. “Everyone will believe it—it’s you, after all—and Trelawney is a complete sucker for anything that involves me and a painful death.”

“What makes you so sure that I _didn’t_ dream about you dying?” I complained. “For all you know, I could dream about that every single night. I could dream about _killing_ you, even.”

He smiled and his face was annoyingly smug. “You could,” he said. “But if that’s all you were dreaming about, this assignment wouldn’t bother you so much. No, I think your dreams are far more embarrassing than you want to admit. What is it, Draco? Pink dancing bunnies? A secret love for tiny, adorable puppies? Erotic visions of, say, Millicent Bulstrode?”

I flinched a little at the last suggestion, but Potter didn’t seem to notice. “None of that,” I said. “I’ve nothing to be embarrassed about. I just don’t want to share my dreams.”

It was a blatant lie, of course, but this time I made sure that I kept my eyebrows under strict control and the rest of my face as blank as possible. Hopefully Potter didn’t have any other ways to identify my deceits.

He studied me carefully. “I suppose it could be something that actually _needs_ to be kept secret,” he said, his eyes a little worried. “Something about the war or about your father or—“

I cut him off. “I’m not that dull,” I said, amused. “The war’s old news. You make it sound like I’m plotting to bring the Dark Lord back to life.”

“Sometimes I wonder,” he retorted, but his tone was lighter and a smile had returned to his mouth, if not yet to his eyes. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

I shook my head. “Nope.”

“Fair enough.” He shrugged. “But if I find out later that you’ve been having sordid little fantasies about Crabbe and Goyle, I’m going to be very disgusted. Because ew.”

I laughed. “How many times do I have to tell you I’m not gay?”

“Enough times for me to believe it,” he threw back. “Seriously, though, go with a dream about me dying. Make it as horrific and gory as possible. Trelawney will lap it up. You’ll become her favourite student in the space of one lesson.”

I nodded. "Okay then."

He looked at me, clearly amazed. "You're really going to take my advice?"

"Why not?"

He stared silently for a long moment, and then a broad smile gradually crept over his countenance, capturing his features and transforming them entirely. "Why not, indeed."

Uncomfortable, I quickly looked away, cursing the dream for corrupting my memories so badly that a mere smile could momentarily stun me into breathlessness. “We should go to lunch,” I said briskly. “If anyone realises I’ve been standing out here talking to you for so long, I’ll be mortified.”

Potter's smile faltered a little, but he nodded resolutely. "You and me both."

I didn't bother to say goodbye, instead simply leaving him and making my way straight to the Great Hall. I slid into the chair Goyle and Crabbe had saved for me and tried to slide, just as casually, all thoughts of Potter and that blasted dream from my mind.

"What did Potter want?" Goyle asked through a mouthful of bread.

"Merlin knows," I replied, reaching for my cutlery.

"I hate him," Crabbe said.

I stared down at the plate in front of me. "Yeah, me too," I said quickly, before finally turning my attention to lunch.

 

*

 

“…and then she started to take off her robes and—“

“Yes, I think we get the picture,” Trelawney jumped in, interrupting Goyle’s rather detailed account of his most recent dream.

Crabbe snickered. “Greg was getting a lot more than the picture,” he said, earning him a stern look from the professor.

“I think that we can safely say that Mister Goyle’s dream can be interpreted in much the same way as the one he shared with us last time we met,” she said, visibly flustered, before turning to look directly at Goyle. “I suggest, my dear, that you choose a more varied dream for your next assignment.”

“But they’re all like that!” Goyle protested.

The class erupted into laughter around me, but I didn’t join in the mirth, concentrating instead on the echo of Trelawney’s words within my mind. By the sound of it, today’s task would only be the first of many like it, a procession of similar assignments stretching towards the distant end of our unit on dreams. It sounded like I was going to have to come up with a lot of fake scenarios over the coming weeks. I had eventually managed to fabricate a dream for today’s exercise, but I couldn’t very well talk about Potter dying every class.

I certainly wasn’t about to start recording my actual dreams. All that I could remember of the previous night’s sleep was the vague image of wide green eyes, rimmed by black metal. If anything, the lack of context made it even more maddening than the first dream. How bad must it have been for my mind to block out the rest? I had no recollection of anything from the two nights in between, but I had an uneasy feeling that they might also have been host to Potter-related dreams. Worst of all had been waking yesterday morning covered in sweat and in desperate need of a cold shower, with no memory of the dream that had produced such an effect.

The fact that I had been dreaming about Potter, however, didn’t mean that the entire school needed to learn of my shame. Calling on every ounce of creativity that I could muster, I had constructed the most elaborate death scene imaginable for the Potter in my made-up dream. Trelawney couldn’t fail to be impressed.

“Mister Malfoy!” The voice of the professor in question cut into my thoughts, the insistent note present in her tone suggesting that it wasn’t the first time she had called my name.

“Yes, Professor Trelawney?” I tried to look as attentive as was possible in that overheated room.

"Pay attention, dear," she replied in mild rebuke. "I asked you to read out your homework to the class."

Nodding, I retrieved my literary masterpiece from the pile of books and scrolls on my desk, holding it up to catch the best light. I cleared my throat dramatically before beginning. “I dreamed of terrible tragedy,” I said in my most melodramatic voice.

To my right, Goyle stifled a laugh.

I threw him a warning look before continuing, launching into my tale of the horrific death of The Boy Who Died After All. I read my lines like the greatest of actors, filling my voice with emotion as I gave all the tragic details of my fictional account. I could almost imagine myself on a stage, surrounded by adoring fans and playing all of the classic villains better than they had ever been played before.

On the parchment in front of me, Potter cried his last, spine-chilling scream. Smiling at the image, I raised my eyes from my assignment and looked expectantly at Trelawney. "Well?" I asked, struggling to keep my amusement from my voice. "What does it mean?"

“Well, that’s pretty obvious,” Pansy said from her seat in front of me, turning so that she could meet my eye. “It means that Potter’s finally going to do what he should’ve done years ago.”

"Better late than never," Millicent added.

"Come, now, my dears, there's no need to cover your fears with bravado," Trelawney murmured as she gestured for me to hand her the scroll that bore my homework.

I leaned forward to pass it to her, before exchanging an amused glance with Crabbe and Goyle.

"Yes, yes," she said, as she skimmed through my lines. "Just as I thought."

“When do you think he’ll die?” I asked, widening my eyes in a picture of fearful innocence. “And do you really think the troll will use Potter’s broomstick in quite so invasive a manner?”

There was an unexpected plague of coughing as several of my classmates tried to muffle their snickers.

“I am not entirely sure about the broomstick, my dear,” she said, “although there are certain experts who would suggest that it might be symbolic of a phallus.”

A distinctly _un_ -muffled snicker came from the back of the room, but Trelawney continued on, undaunted. “I am, however, happy to reassure you that Mister Potter will not be dying any time soon. At least, there is nothing in your dream to suggest that such a tragedy might occur.”

“What?” I spluttered. “But the whole thing was about Potter meeting an especially grizzly end.”

"True," she said, nodding. "But have you forgotten our first lesson so soon?"

I frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Remember what I told you about the complexity of dreams. Many things within them are metaphors that represent their true meaning."

My frown was deepening by the second. “What exactly _does_ my dream mean, then?” I asked, hoping that my creative endeavour hadn’t been a complete waste of time. “Is it just that I _want_ Potter to die, instead of a prediction that he’s about to do so?”

Trelawney laughed, the action causing the chains around her neck to clatter together. “Don’t worry, my dear! Your dream has nothing at all to do with death.”

I hadn’t been worried up until that moment, but now I began to feel the first hints of anxiety nagging at the back of my mind.

“In dreams,” she continued, “death isn’t a sign of mortality, as such. Instead, it predicts an imminent change. In this case, the prominence of Mister Potter suggests that this is likely to be a change in your relationship. A new friendship, or perhaps something more.”

“Ooh, Draco loves Harry Potter,” Daphne teased, earning her a sharp nudge from Pansy’s elbow.

I shot her my most unimpressed glare before turning back to Trelawney. “Then the dream must be wrong,” I said, my voice firm. “A false prophesy. Because there’s no way in hell I’m ever going to hook up with Potter.”

“Dreams don’t lie, _dear_ ,” Trelawney said. “And not all relationships are romantic. Your dream might foretell a turning point in your friendship.”

"Potter and I are _not_ friends." I quickly jumped in to correct her.

“Not yet, perhaps.” She smiled irritatingly at me before raising her gaze to look at the class as a whole. “Who would like to go next?”

Glaring impotently, I stared angrily down at the scroll that I still held in one hand, wondering whether Potter had intentionally set me up. It seemed unlikely—after all, he hardly came across as an expert on dreams—but I couldn’t completely discount the possibility. It seemed like a little too much of a coincidence that the very dream he’d suggested had a meaning so likely to humiliate me in front of the class. And, I remembered, he _had_ said that his aunt had dabbled in such things.

I sighed and scrunched the paper into a tight ball within my fist, cursing my miserable luck. With the way that things had turned out, I had barely improved my situation at all by creating a false dream. My classmates would still be questioning the depth of my hatred for Potter, thanks to Trelawney’s ridiculous interpretation of the meaning of his death, and there was no knowing how seriously they’d taken the whole thing until I’d had a few days to judge their reaction.

In the meantime, all I could do was attempt to convey my negative feelings toward Potter in every waking thought and deed. As long as I was careful, the whispers wouldn’t go on for long. My subconscious, however, was a more difficult thing to control. I was beginning to worry that it was permanently broken. The prospect of dreaming about Potter every night for the rest of my life was enough to make me feel physically ill.

Silently listing all of the curses I would place upon the wizard who had invented dream interpretation if he ever dared to cross my path, I only listened with a fraction of my attention as Millicent related a saga about a talking cat. I had more dreams to invent and a reputation to repair. But first I had to survive the rest of the class.

 

*                            

 

Whenever I felt the need to think, I was drawn to the Quidditch pitch. There was something about flying that I found inherently calming. When I was trying out a new move, several hundred feet above the ground, my problems seemed insignificant in comparison to the rush of adrenalin and excitement. Perhaps it was the thinner air, or simply the act of focusing on something else, but I often found that solutions came to me surprisingly easily once I succumbed to the urge to spend an hour in the air.

On the morning after the disastrous Divination class, I needed the healing power of my broomstick more than ever. I was practicing dives for the Wronski Feint when I became aware of the presence of another student at the far end of the pitch, just beyond the point where the sand met the surrounding grass. For a moment, I considered ignoring the interloper, but my curiosity soon got the better of me. It was quite early in the day for a spectator.

Executing a few of my most complicated moves for effect, I slowly made my way towards the figure. I half expected it to be one of the first year Slytherins, who tended to follow me around the school as though I were some kind of teenage god. While the adulation was flattering—and entirely understandable—it could become a little tiresome after a while. Watching me at Quidditch practice seemed to be one of their most favoured pastimes, possibly because I could always be relied upon to show off my skills as soon as I became aware that I had an audience.

As I grew nearer to the other student, however, I realised that it wasn’t one of my first year minions after all—far from it, in fact. I turned my broom towards the ground and executed the perfect landing, dismounting only feet away from my watcher. “Potter,” I said in greeting, my tone wary.

"Hi," he responded, his eyes on my broomstick. "Doing a little Quidditch practice, are you?"

I stared at him like the idiot he was. “I would’ve thought that was bloody obvious.”

He raised his own broom, which had previously been held loosely under one lowered arm. "Great minds think alike."

"Perhaps, but how does that explain _you_ being here?" I threw back.

He grinned. "Maybe I'm a spy."

"I thought the whole point of spies was that they were meant to be discreet," I said. "As far as I can tell, there's nothing at all secretive about the Gryffindor captain standing out in full view, blatantly watching me run through my moves."

“It’s lucky I’m not really a spy, then, isn’t it?” His smile widened. “Honestly, though, I had no idea you’d be out here too. I just felt like flying for a while—clearing my head, if you know what I mean.”

There was something very depressing in the realisation that Potter and I dealt with issues in much the same way. “I suppose I do,” I said, resenting the admission.

We fell into an almost-comfortable silence for a while, simply standing there, looking at the Quidditch pitch and holding our broomsticks in our hands as the rest of the world continued on without us. Finally, my curiosity compelled me to speak. "So, why did you need to clear your head?" I asked.

Potter frowned, his fingers nervously fiddling with the shaft of the broom at his side. "Nothing major," he muttered. "It was more that I didn't have anything better to do. Hermione and Ron are off doing some assignment together, and there's only so much I can bear of Neville before I start to feel an intense need to escape."

I laughed. "I can imagine."

"In the end, it was either come out here or do my homework," he continued. "It wasn't much of a choice."

"So you thought you'd annoy me instead."

“I didn’t know you were going to be here,” he said again. “How would I?”

I stared at him for a while, trying to determine whether he was telling the truth. His face was unreadable, his gaze steady and his mouth a straight line. “Perhaps not,” I said finally, “but I bet you were glad to see me anyway.” I gave him a knowing smile.

His sudden inability to meet my eyes was strangely gratifying. "Your ego never fails to surprise me, Draco."

I shrugged. "Practice makes perfect."

He laughed, the tense lines of his body loosening a little, although his gaze remained firmly on the ground. "Oh," he said suddenly, as though he were eager to change the subject. "I've been meaning to ask you. How did your Divination assignment go?"

Immediately, I was reminded of my reasoning for seeking out the Quidditch pitch in the first place. "Badly." I glared belligerently at him. "And it's all down to you."

“Me?” Potter regarded me with confusion, his green eyes wide beneath his messy fringe. “What did I do now?”

“You told me to say I dreamed about you dying,” I snapped. “And it turns out that means we’re about to become the bestest of friends.” _Or worse_ , I thought, but I wasn’t about to tell Potter that.

To his credit, he looked like he was as surprised by that interpretation as I had been. “Really?” he asked. “That seems awfully strange.”

“Well, you should know.”

He raised an eyebrow at me, his tone patronising. "And you're suggesting I planned it, right? Why? As some kind of pathetic scheme to become your friend?"

“I wouldn’t put it past you,” I said. “But I was thinking more along the lines of an attempt to humiliate me.”

"I really can't believe you," Potter snapped, banging the end of his broomstick against the ground for emphasis. "Do you think that my entire life revolves around you?"

"I don't see why not," I smirked.

"You wouldn't."

"Look, I just think it's an awfully big coincidence." I let the words hang in the air between us.

Potter shook his head, the anger seeming to drain from his face. “And that’s all it is,” he said firmly. “Give me a little credit, won’t you? If I’d really wanted to humiliate you, I’d have done my research first and come up with something you’d never live down. Something that implied you were about to grow a heart, perhaps, or maybe even turn into a kind and tolerant asset to the world.”

“Oh, very amusing,” I said. “I’m so honoured to be sharing air with The Boy Who Made Bad Jokes.”

Potter grinned. "Hypocrite."

"Muggle-lover."

"Bigot."

"Teacher's pet."

"Teacher's pet?" Potter laughed. "What do you call your relationship with Snape?"

"I thought we’d already established that I'm a hypocrite," I reminded him.

"Touché." Dropping his broomstick, Potter carefully lowered himself to the ground, infuriating me with his assumption that our conversation would last long enough to warrant the move.

More annoying, however, was the fact that my body sank to the ground beside him, seemingly of its own accord. "So, what's this assignment that Weasley and Granger are so caught up in?" I asked, my tone teasing. "Anything to do with Herbology?"

Potter frowned. "Care of Magical Creatures, actually."

"But you’re in that class too," I said. “Why aren’t you all doing it together? Or have you already finished yours?”

"I've not even started," he admitted. "And, in answer to your first question, I wasn't invited."

I gave him a knowing look. "That sounds very suspicious."

"Tell me about it." Potter's fingers tugged nervously at the blades of grass beside him, worrying them into tattered shards. He held his body tensely, his shoulders square and the line of his jaw unusually firm.

“I’ve always said you’re too trusting,” I said. “They’re taking advantage.”

"I'm probably just jumping to conclusions," he replied. His voice was brisk but his face showed signs of distress. "Can we change the subject, please?"

For some reason, I didn’t feel like pushing the issue. As fun as it usually was to tease Potter about his best friends’ secret romance, there was something in his eyes that day that prompted me to hold my tongue. Perhaps it was a lingering side effect from one of my recent dreams, but hurting him no longer seemed quite as amusing as it once had been.

It was a disconcerting realisation, but not nearly as disconcerting as it was to be sitting no more than two feet away from the subject of those dreams. Every time I looked at him, I was assaulted by a rush of memories. When he smiled, I remembered how his dream lips had felt against my own. When he reached up to push his hair from his eyes, I recalled the tug of his fingers in _my_ hair and the scrape of his teeth along the skin of my neck. And, with each memory that flashed into my mind, I hated myself a little bit more.

I should leave, I realised, but instead I let myself fall backwards onto the grass, the blades tickling the back of my neck as I stared up at the clouds above us. The ground was still damp with the morning’s dew and I enjoyed the feel of something real to counter the lies my subconscious had created.

“What did you want to talk about, then?” I asked.

I couldn’t believe that I was actively prolonging a conversation with Potter. Exchanging insults in the corridor was one thing, but actually electing to spend time with him was a much more loaded choice. It seemed as though, yet again, I was sickening with some strange illness. I could think of no other explanation; my health must be at fault.

“It doesn’t worry me,” he said, shrugging. “Let’s face it, I must be desperate for any kind of conversation if I’m sitting out here with you.”

I frowned. Surely that should have been my line. “Think of how desperate _I_ must be, then,” I threw back. “That Divination assignment must have _really_ messed me up.”

Potter lay back beside me. I became painfully aware of how little distance there was between his head and my own. “I still can’t see what you’re so worried about,” he said. “Trelawney’s never been an accurate prophet. I’ve long since lost count of all the times she’s predicted that I’d be dead by the end of the week.”

“That’s not the point,” I explained. “It’s not like the dream was real, anyway. The problem is that now my entire class thinks I’m about to become your friend.”

"And what's so wrong about that?" he asked, a hint of petulance in his voice.

“We’re enemies, remember?”

He rolled over onto his side, his eyes staring at me so intently that I struggled to hold his gaze. “And yet here we are, having a proper conversation,” he said, “and getting along just fine.”

“Just because I’m talking to you,” I said, keeping my voice even, “that doesn’t mean I don’t still hate you.”

Potter’s eyes darkened and his lips curved a fraction downwards. “I suppose not,” he said tightly, before rolling back over and fixing his gaze firmly on the sky.

There was something in his dejected appearance that tugged at my chest, but I pushed the feeling aside. I refused to feel guilty just because I was being manipulated by a combination of my dreams and Harry Potter’s stupid eyes. “I don’t know why you’re so snooty about the whole thing,” I snapped. “You know as well as I do that we’re never going to be friends.”

“What do you call this then?” he asked, before rolling back over so that he could fix me with a frustrated glare. “What the hell do you call this?”

"Killing time?"

“If I had suggested to you last year that you might like to ‘kill time’ by talking to _me_ , you would have said that I was insane.”

“I _still_ think you’re insane,” I threw back. “Look, it’s not my fault that you’re always hanging around. I can’t help that I’m irresistible.”

"Irresistible? Not likely! What you are is a _prat_ , Draco." The light was back in his eyes now, and they flashed with a dangerous glow.

"That's no way to talk to a friend," I said, a smirk twisting my mouth.

"Well, it's a good thing we're not, then, isn't it?" he spat.

"Make your mind up, Potter."

He let out a low yelp of frustration. "Ron's right, you know," he muttered. "I really don't know why I bother with you."

"It's because I'm hot, remember." I fixed him with one of my most dashing grins.

He glared back at me, completely unaffected. "There's that giant ego again." His top list twisted into a hint of a sneer and I found myself temporarily unable to pull my gaze away from his mouth. "Merlin knows why I'd ever want to be friends with such an arrogant git."

I raised an eyebrow at his words. "You want to be friends with me?"

His anger seemed to fade almost instantaneously, quenched by his rush to cover his mistake. “Of course not,” he said briskly, although his eyes seemed less sure. “We’re enemies.”

"Mortal enemies." My gaze remained locked on his face.

There was a long pause before Potter spoke again and, when he did, the words tumbled out so quickly that they slurred together. “But we can still talk occasionally, can’t we?” he asked.

I smiled. "I don't see why not. I'd hate for you to suffer from withdrawal."

"Not likely." He smiled broadly back at me, a happy bearing of teeth.

We lay in silence for a while, strangely comfortable in each other's presence. We were so near that I could hear him breathing, but the awkwardness caused by my dreams finally seemed to be fading a little, pushed aside by the reality of time spent at his side.

I was the first to speak, reluctant to break the moment, but aware of the passage of time. "I should go," I said. "I've a tonne of homework that I should be doing. _And_ I have to come up with another fake dream for Divination."

I sat up and Potter followed suit, brushing a few stray twigs and blades of grass from his hair. "Why don't you just use a real one? It'd be so much easier, and you might be surprised –again—by what it’s actually supposed to mean."

I shook my head vehemently. "Oh no," I said quickly. "I know _exactly_ how Trelawney would interpret it. And it's bad enough that everyone thinks I'm going to end up _liking_ you, let alone—" I stopped suddenly, horrified by what I had been about to say.

"Let alone _what_?" Potter prompted.

"Nothing," I mumbled, bending down to pick up my broomstick.

He stared at me for a long time before speaking. His expression was even, but on his mouth there was the slightest hint of a smile. "Tease."

I nodded. "And a hypocrite, apparently."

"Good luck with your homework, then." He bent to collect his own broom. "I guess I should actually do some practice, seeing as that's why I came down here in the first place."

"Have fun."

That was the obvious moment for me to leave, but I felt strangely unable to do so, instead just remaining firmly frozen to the spot, my eyes playing lazily over his features.

"Are you going, then?" he teased.

I smiled sheepishly. "Sure. Bye."

Willing my feet into action, I turned and headed away from the pitch. I had only travelled a few metres, however, when Potter shouted after me.

"You've been dreaming about _me_ , haven't you?" he called.

I glanced around quickly to make sure that there wasn’t anyone else within hearing distance and then turned back to look at Potter. “Why the hell would I do that?” I asked.

His face stretched into a wide grin. "You _did_! Say it!"

His words sent a bolt of memory zig-zagging through my mind, pulling me right back to the first of my Potter dreams. It should have been a terrible reminder or, at the very least, disconcerting, but somehow the dreams didn’t seem quite so horrifying any more.

"Nope. Nothing of the sort." Laughing, I turned and left, ignoring his subsequent shouts and feeling the best I had since waking from the very first dream.

The smile remained on my face throughout the rest of my day, even during my homework and my other daytime chores.  It confused the hell out of Crabbe and Goyle, who had still expected me to be furious about Trelawney's interpretation of my dream. I still wasn’t happy about it, but there didn’t seem much point in ruminating.

By evening, I felt strangely tired. After saying my goodnights, I retired early and fell asleep almost straight away.

That night, I dreamed that Potter died.

 


	7. The Vicarious Betrayal

On the far fringe of the Forbidden Forest lay a small, decrepit hut, covered in ivy and surrounded by tangled blackberries. The wood of its walls was greyed by age, rotting into nothingness in parts and, in others, freckled with green moss. From the outside, it was the sort of building that most people would barely notice and few would ever remember. Inside, however, it was a tattered paradise.

I discovered the hut in the winter of my third year at Hogwarts. I must have walked past it many times before, as I had always enjoyed walking the school grounds when the noise and clutter of the Slytherin area became too unbearable. I didn’t often stray very near to the forest, wary of the creatures and dangers it contained, but the building itself was in an obvious enough position, surrounded as it was by lawns and starkly different from its natural backdrop.

Someone a lot more romantic than myself—the names Dumbledore and Potter immediately spring to mind—might suggest that I first saw the hut when it decided to be seen. Personally, I think that gives far too much agency to a collection of washed-out wood. I didn’t see it earlier because I had no cause to do so. Its dirty, forgotten exterior held no interest for me. At least, not until an icy day in the middle of my third year.

My memories of the day are as faded as the hut itself. Noticing the building was not some great turning point in life. It was just a random occurrence, an event that scarcely held any significance at all for almost four years. I remember that it was winter, I remember that the roof was dappled with snow, and I remember that I was alone. I was always alone.

When I pulled open the damp-swelled door, I was greeted by a rush of musty air and the foul, underlying smell of mould. Within a few minutes of propping open the door, however, the interior grew more welcoming. Shelves lined the far wall, their emptiness occasionally marred by a rusted tool or a discarded and curled seed packet. The floor was the ground itself, tangled with ivy where the dirt met the gaps in the walls. A long, wooden bench was the only furniture. A gardener’s shed, long ago fallen from use.

It was so different from anything I’d ever known that it immediately established a gentle curiosity within me. Nothing obsessive, nothing regular, but occasionally I would visit the abandoned hut when I most wanted my solitude to be undisturbed by the overwhelming helpfulness of Crabbe and Goyle.

The smell of decay became almost acceptable over time and I enjoyed the knowledge that my father would never have ventured into the gloomy interior. He would have spoken of dirt and dignity, naturally, but I knew him too well not to have noticed him flinching at the mere suggestion of an abandoned cobweb. Personally, I didn’t mind the wildlife, as long as it stayed away from me and didn’t mess up my hair.

After four years of occasional visits, I’d almost come to think of the hut as my own. Certainly, I’d never seen any signs of other visitors. The shelves remained crooked and cobwebbed and the floor stayed rough, the ivy broken only in places where it had been thwarted by the path of the door. Even the bench collected dust in my—often long—absences.

In the October of my seventh year at Hogwarts, however, I learnt that emptiness did not always preclude knowledge.

 

*

 

"Merlin’s beard!" I yelped, staring at the horrifying scene in front of me. I wanted to move, to make a very speedy exit through the doorway at my rear, but my body seemed to be frozen quite firmly in its place. "What the fuck?"

Hermione Granger struggled to cover her state of partial nudity, clumsily grabbing for her blouse with one hand while the other arm crossed her chest in belated modesty. Beside her on the ground, Ron Weasley seemed to be attempting to disguise his own shirtless condition with a vibrant blush, which was rapidly overwhelming the skin of his face, neck and torso. Perhaps it would have fooled me, if it were not for the sickening flash of red and gold satin that glimmered from his open fly.

"Merlin’s beard," I said again, feeling like I was about to throw up. Of all the people to walk in upon, it just had to be the two I least wanted to see undressed.

"Yes, I think we heard you the first time, Malfoy," Granger snapped, attempting to push her free arm through the sleeve of her blouse. She was too frazzled to make it work, however, and it caught at the elbow and became stuck.

Weasley leaned over to help her, quite the gentleman if you ignored the state of his own attire. "What the hell are you doing here, anyway?" he demanded. "I've always known you were a poisonous bastard, but I have to say that I never took you for a voyeur."

"No?" His comment intrigued me, almost enough to make me forget the scene in front of me for a moment. "Well, no more than the next bloke, I suppose," I conceded. "Now, exhibitionism, there’s a more interesting idea."

"Ugh," Granger said quickly. "I'd rather not face that mental image if you don't mind."

"At least it was only mental for you," I threw back. "I never thought I'd be revolted by the sight of a topless woman, but here we are."

Granger squealed indignantly, but her eyes betrayed the fact that my comment had done more than offend her feminist sensibilities. Locating and donning his own shirt, Weasley stretched an arm around her shoulders in protective sympathy.

"What would you know anyway, Malfoy?" he asked coldly. "Everyone knows your interests lie in another direction."

I frowned. “Well, if you mean away from Gryffindor, then I suppose you might be right.”

"I meant away from girls, and you know it," he spat.

"Girls?" I raised an eyebrow. "Oh dear, you've been talking to Potter again, haven't you? You really should be careful about that. Too much and you’ll end up completely mad.”

Granger leant towards me, glowering dangerously. "Can't you ever be civil?” she asked.

"Civil?" I laughed. "You're the one who had your tits out."

This time the squawk was one of pure anger. I let the beginnings of a triumphant smirk transform the lines of my face. The two Gryffindors were less amused, however, Weasley’s fingers slowly clenching and unclenching within the folds of Granger’s blouse. Their expressions were steely—impressively so—but the masks didn’t extend as far as their eyes, which shone with embarrassment and frustration. I thought it best not to think too much about that latter emotion, but the former was almost worth the horror of catching them in the act. Almost.

"What I’d like to know is why you’re still here," Weasley said eventually, his words almost staccato due to the tightness of his jaw.

I shrugged, smiling benignly as I made myself comfortable on the bench. "Masochism?" I suggested.

"Sadism, more like," Granger muttered.

"That too." I paused for a moment, innocently playing with one of my shirt buttons before speaking again. "I take it you've told Potter about all this…"

There was a prolonged period of silence before Weasley replied. "Of course."

"You're a lousy liar, Weasley."

"What would _you_ know?" he asked again, glaring hatefully at me as his eyes flashed a challenge. "You might think you know everything, Malfoy, but you don't. Especially not when it comes to Harry."

"I've never claimed to be an expert on your scarred little friend," I replied, keeping my tone bored. "All I'm saying is that he was still in denial about this whole thing when I last spoke to him. But, if you've finally found the balls to tell him, then good for you." I smiled evilly. "After all, I'd _hate_ to see Potter get hurt."

"Bastard," Weasley snapped.

I yawned. "So they say."

"We've told him," he reaffirmed. "Well… that is… he does know."

I just smiled silently at him, my amusement surely emanating from every pore of my body.

"We've _hinted_ a lot," Granger contributed. "Harry's smart. I'm sure he must have realised something's going on."

"Don't count on it." Stretching, I rose from my seat, moving so that I stood over the not-so-happy couple. "Your Potter is very good at denial when he wants to be."

"There are some things I wish he'd try _harder_ to deny," Weasley muttered under his breath, before being quietened by a pointed look from Granger.

"He trusts you," I said, glancing at Weasley, my eyes wide with innocence as I uttered the words. "He shouldn't… but he does."

"We were going to say something," Granger protested, obviously beginning to bend a little under the pressure of my guilt trip. "There just hasn't been the right moment yet. Harry's always so busy with school and Quidditch and you that—"

"Wait a minute," I jumped in. "Me?"

"Yes, you," Weasley growled, answering for Granger. "What have you done, put a hex on him or something?"

"Several, actually," I said. "But either I got my words wrong or he's impervious to the damn things. Probably the latter, if I know my luck. Pity. He'd look bloody hilarious with scales."

"You're not taking this seriously," Granger accused me. "You don't care about Harry's reaction to this at all."

"I don't know about that," I drawled. "I wouldn't mind seeing his face when he finds out. Beyond that, I don't see why I _would_ care."

"See, you're still joking about it," Weasley said.

"Au contraire." I smiled evilly. "I'm taking this whole thing _very_ seriously. Just as I'm sure Potter will when I tell him."

"You wouldn't!" Granger yelped before coming to her senses, a wry smile twisting her features. "How silly of me," she murmured. "Of course you would."

"I guess it all depends on whether you can give me a good enough reason _not_ to tell him."

"Right." Weasley glared at me, hatred positively gleaming from his eyes. "And what could _we_ possibly have that you couldn't just go out and buy for yourself?"

I shrugged. "Nothing that immediately comes to mind."

"What, then?" The combination of anger and guilt was really doing nothing for Granger's looks, but I suppose Weasley couldn't afford to be picky.

"Convince me." I smiled benignly at them. "Convince me that I shouldn't just head right over to the Gryffindor tower to tell your bestest friend what you've been doing all year."

"It hasn't been all year," Weasley protested. "Only since the summer break."

"And, besides," Granger added. "Harry's never going to believe your word over ours."

"You might be surprised."

Personally, I had no idea whether Potter would believe such a revelation coming from my mouth, but that didn’t prevent me from instilling a little doubt into his so-called friends' minds. And, frankly, I think they deserved every little bit of angst I that managed to toss their way.

I may never have had a particularly _equal_ friendship with Crabbe and Goyle, but at least I'd never maliciously deceived them simply to satisfy my own lust. I also never pretended to be the perfect example of loyalty, honour and morality in public while I did my best to contradict such traits in private. If I were doing something underhanded, then at least I always had the decency to admit and be proud of it. I'd never understood those who were so keen to perpetuate a front of angelic goodness.

"If you cared about Harry's feelings at all, you wouldn't tell him," Weasley said, missing the point entirely.

"I don't," I said. "Which is why telling him would give me so much pleasure."

I was lying, of course. The last thing I wanted was to have to deal with a snivelling Potter throwing himself into my arms for a comforting hug. I could already picture the damp glistening of his wide green eyes and the fragile tremble of his lower lip as he struggled to come to terms with the knowledge that his beloved friends were not so perfect after all.

There was something strangely disorienting in that mental image. For a moment, I wondered whether it would really be so bad, before regaining control of my mind. I didn’t want to have to look into that face, didn’t want to be tempted to sympathise, to hold him as he was holding me, to utter stupid inanities about things working out for the best and the pain fading with the passage of time. I didn’t want to live through some vicarious betrayal in the role of Potter’s loyal confidante.

But Weasley and Granger didn't need to know that.

"You're such a bastard, Malfoy," Weasley spat. "I don't know how you live with yourself."

"Very easily, thank you." Shrugging, I turned and headed for the door, pausing there for a moment to let my eyes flow over the scene a final time, just in case I was later called on to provide a testimony about the event. "You're going to be the ones having trouble sleeping tonight."

"What? Are you saying that you’re not going straight to Harry to tell him?" Granger asked, her tone icy. "If you're not careful, one of us will get in first and spoil your fun."

"I'll risk it. Let's face it: you've been going around behind his all-too-trusting back for months now. I doubt another few hours is going to make much of a difference."

"So you're not going to blackmail us, then?" Granger looked genuinely surprised, an amusing expression of disbelief taking over her features.

"As much as I hate to admit it, the weasel was right in this case. Neither of you have anything that I could ever possibly want."

"What about Harry?" Weasley asked pointedly.

"I hardly think I'm about to start craving the friendship of Hogwarts' personal celebrity," I said with a tight laugh. "And, besides, you might not have Potter either, once he finds out about all this."

"He'll forgive us," Granger replied, sounding surprisingly self-assured, all things considered.

"I'm sure he will." I shrugged. "Whether or not he’ll ever trust you again is another thing entirely."

They both glared at me in a silent response.

"Tell him tonight—or I'll tell him tomorrow," I said. "And, if it comes to that, I might also need to let Snape know what was going on inside this hut. I'm sure there's a school rule banning that sort of thing."

"There should be a school rule banning _you_ ," Weasley snapped.

"Perhaps, someday." I turned to leave. "If you want to be even remotely worthy of Potter’s friendship, you’ll tell him tonight."

If they said anything else, I didn’t hear it.

On the long walk back to the main school building, I had an awful lot to think about, not much of it pleasant. Foremost in my mind, however, was the question of why I cared one way or the other whether Weasley and Granger told Potter about their sordid romance. Why couldn’t I let him find out in the same gruesome way that I had?

Oddly, however, it seemed as though I _did_ care. And that realisation was more horrifying and repulsive than seeing a thousand half-naked and kissing Weasleys and Grangers could ever be. It was the kind of revelation that was best pushed as far to the back of my mind as possible. And, over the next few hours, I did a pretty good job of doing just that.

 

*

 

Just after midnight, I was woken by a loud flapping of wings. Sleepily prising my eyes open, I squinted into the darkness, only to find myself staring at a large white owl, which was making itself comfortable on the foot of my bed.

"What the hell?" I muttered, catching sight of the crumpled piece of paper that was resting on my duvet.

"What's going on?" Crabbe whined from the bed next to mine.

"I don't know," I replied truthfully. "But I think it's for me. Go back to sleep."

"Okay," Crabbe agreed, his soft snores only seconds later suggesting that he had been remarkably quick to follow my order.

Sitting up and arranging my pillows behind me, I reached down to claim the piece of parchment as the owl fluffed its feathers up in an apparent gesture of impatience. Grabbing my wand to create a little light, I unfolded the paper and saw that it bore only three words: _You were right._

I frowned, wondering what it could be referring to, and then remembered the afternoon's events. "Potter," I muttered, re-reading the note. Granger and Weasley must have finally conjured up the nerve to tell him. It was about bloody time.

I glanced towards the owl. "Why are you still here?" I asked it quietly, wary of waking my roommates. "Does he expect a reply?"

It just ruffled its feathers some more, as though amused that I was actually talking to it in the first place. Sighing, I found a pencil on my bedside table and turned the paper over. Chewing on the end of the pencil, I wondered what I was expected to write to a mortal enemy who seemed to be expecting my sympathy. Finally, I settled on, _I take it they told you then_ , before refolding the parchment and handing it back to the owl.

It seemed to know who to take it to without a word from me, immediately launching itself into the air in another loud flutter of wings. Shaking my head as it flew out through the open door of our dormitory, I settled back down to await sleep.

It was not long, however, before the owl returned, clutching another piece of parchment in its beak. Grumbling, I found my wand again, before taking the note from the bird and unfolding it.

 _Long story. Can you meet me just outside the Slytherin area?_ I read silently.

Frowning, I turned to the owl, hoping that it might have a better understanding of the situation than I did. "Does he honestly expect me to traipse out there at this time of night, just to listen to his little tale of woe?" I grumbled.

The owl just stared blankly back at me, seemingly unmoved.

As much as it annoyed me to realise that I must have been Potter's first choice for the role of crisis counsellor, I had to admit that I was a little curious about what had gone on between him, Weasley and Granger. And, in a peculiar sort of way, I was actually rather interested in how Potter would act now that he had been forced to discard his previous shield of denial. If he were about to become The Boy Having A Mental Breakdown, it might actually be rather fun to witness his distress.

At least, that's what I told myself as I slipped out of bed and hastily pulled a dressing gown over my pyjamas.

As I quietly walked through the dark and silent dungeons, the owl flew ahead of me, as though it didn’t trust me to know my way around the area of Hogwarts that I knew best. But it was certainly not the first time I had sneaked out of my dorm at night, and that meant I could make much quicker progress than if I had to gingerly test each piece of floor before putting my whole weight on it. I knew every creaky floorboard and squeaking door of the Slytherin area, so it was no great feat to reach the exit without incident.

I found the corridor beyond our quarters completely empty, which was probably unsurprising when one considered how far Potter would have had to travel compared to me. To kill a little time while I waited, I moved over to the closest window to look out at the night. The flickering light being cast by the wall torches, however, was enough to ensure that all I could see was my reflection. It was a terrible sight. My hair was uncharacteristically mussed and the collar of my pyjamas looked like it was wrestling with my dressing gown, pulling both to one side and exposing my clavicle. Cursing under my breath, I folded the collar back into order before starting on my hair, pressing it down and backwards with my hands while I mentally willed it to behave itself.

Soft laughter from my rear caused me to spin around in time to see Potter's head appear literally from nowhere. "Don't you ever stop primping and preening?" he asked as the rest of his body came into view.

"Well, if certain enemies of mine didn't wake me up and then insist on dragging me out of bed in the middle of the night, I might not need to." My eyes dropped to the velveteen cloak that now lay pooled at his feet. "And since when have you owned an invisibility cloak?"

"Since half way through first year," he said, grinning.

"No wonder Gryffindor wins so many Quidditch matches," I grumbled. "You've probably been spying on all of us since day one."

"That's not really my style."

"No?" Turning back to the window, I returned my attention to my hair.

"No," Potter replied firmly. "And don't worry about your hair. I actually quite like it like that."

"What? Messy?" I asked, bewildered. I turned to study him, one brow raised.

"I was thinking more along the lines of dishevelled, myself," he said. "It makes you look fractionally more human."

I grinned back at him. "That could never be a good thing." Closing the gap between us, I reached down to pick up the cloak, amusing myself entirely too much by making my hand disappear and reappear a few times. "If not for Quidditch spying, what do you use it for?"

"Sneaking out at night, mostly," he admitted. "It's perfect for when I want to pop down to the kitchens for a midnight snack."

A horrible thought suddenly occurred to me. "You've never used it to watch me, have you?" I asked.

"What, in the showers?" he teased, and then immediately spoilt the effect of his words by turning an impressively lurid shade of Weasley red.

"I hope not," I replied, trying to keep my tone even. Normally, I wouldn't have been at all worried by such a suggestion, confident in my appearance both in and out of clothes. Thanks to my recent plague of erotic dreams, however, I had been taking a lot more cold showers than usual and the icy water was far from flattering in terms of my assets. Not that I wanted to impress Potter, but if he were going to look, I’d prefer he saved it for a better time.

"Of course I haven't," he muttered. "Besides—even if I did have the inclination to do so, I'd never get into the Slytherin area without knowing the password, invisible or not."

"You've tried, have you?" I asked, gaining a sadistic pleasure from the embarrassment that filled his eyes. "And anyway, your owl seemed to manage."

"What? Hedwig?" He glanced over to the windowsill on which the owl was perching. "I guess it's different for owls. They seem to be able to go anywhere they want."

Covering a yawn with my hand, I raised an eyebrow at my enemy. "Is that why you dragged me out here? To talk about owls?"

Potter's glare didn't quite reach his eyes. "You're the one who brought it up. And you know that’s not the reason."

"Well then? What happened?" Suddenly aware of how exposed we were, I took a quick glance up and down the corridor. Although there was no one in sight, I still felt a little uncomfortable. "Look, let's go into the common room," I suggested. "I don't want to get a detention for your sake."

Shrugging, he followed me into the Slytherin area. Looking annoyed, his owl disappeared, apparently sick of the night's activities. Once inside the common room, he made himself comfortable on one of the sofas, sitting back against the cushions as though he had every right to be there. Purely for the sake of keeping our conversation as quiet as possible, I sat down beside him, being careful not to let my thigh brush against his own.

"Come on, then," I said briskly. "Let's hear it. I wouldn't mind actually getting some sleep at some point tonight."

"You were right," he replied bluntly. "About Ron and Hermione."

"How did they tell you?" As little as I cared for middle of the night small talk with Potter, I had to admit that I was genuinely interested in his answer. After all, I knew about Slytherin-style betrayal but when it came to Gryffindors doing the dirty I was a relative virgin.

"Tell me?" he said bitterly. "They didn't tell me."

I gaped at him, truly surprised. "They didn't? But—"

"They didn't," he affirmed, cutting me off. "I walked in on them."

Twice in one day? That was just plain careless. “You're kidding," I said aloud.

"I wish I were." His eyes flicked around the room, taking in the contents of the shelves and storage cases. "You don't have any more of that potion, do you?" he asked, almost sheepishly. "It's just that I could do with a laugh right now."

I frowned. "Yeah, there's a little left. But are you sure? You know what happened last time."

"No matter what I call you, it has to feel better than this," Potter replied quietly.

Taking in the utterly defeated expression on his face, I nodded and stood, quickly locating the potion amongst a cluster of other filled vials I kept in my area of the furthermost bookcase. "Here," I said, handing it to him. "But only take a small sip. Drink it all and you’ll pass out. And I’ve no intention of carrying you back to your dorm."

He took the potion from me, sniffing it gingerly before taking a small mouthful. As he swallowed, his face screwed up in an expression of obvious displeasure. "Ugh! That's revolting!" he spluttered.

"It's best that you don't ask what's in it," I said, taking a very small sip myself before hiding the potion back behind the other vials. I figured that I'd probably need to be a little tipsy if I wanted to survive a night of Potter angst.

Once he had recovered from the potion and I had returned to my seat on the couch, Potter launched into an account of what had happened that evening. Far from the guilt-stricken confession I had expected from his friends, it turned out that Potter had left his dormitory in search of one of those aforementioned midnight snacks, only to literally bump into Weasley and Granger, who were feverishly kissing in a darkened hall. Shocked and hurt, he had simply stood there and stared while his best friends had launched into an endless litany of denials and excuses.

Finally, and still without speaking a word, he had simply left them in the hall, grabbing a quill and parchment before heading straight to the owlery to contact me. I wasn't sure why I had been his first choice, instead of another of his goody-goody housemates, and I had a feeling that I didn’t want to know.

"So they didn't come up with a good excuse?" I asked, once Potter had finished speaking.

"I didn't really listen," he admitted. "After all, what could they possibly have said that would have made it all okay? Nothing, that's what." His voice dropped and he glared moodily at the fireplace in front of us. "It's too late for talking."

"I can't believe they didn't tell you," I said, completely baffled. "I was so sure they…" My voice trailed off as I became aware that Potter was regarding me with a piercing stare.

"What do you mean?" he asked, his fingers nervously plucking at the fabric of his invisibility cloak.

Quickly weighing up my options, I decided that—for once—honesty appeared to be the best choice. Ethics aside, it seemed the option most likely to have me back in bed some time before dawn. "I walked in on them today too," I admitted. "There's a hut over near the Forbidden Forest. I go there sometimes when I feel like being alone. When I went there today, though, it was already occupied."

"They were…?"

I nodded. "They were. Well, they were about to, at least."

It was a while before Potter spoke again. "And you didn't tell me either," he said finally, his tone quiet.

I stared at him in confusion for a moment before realising what he meant. "Oh no," I said firmly. "You're not going to make me out to be the bad guy in this. Normally, I wouldn't mind. I would probably even encourage it. But I am not taking any credit for the amateur villainy of Weasley and Granger."

Potter seemed completely unmoved by my little speech. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, his face looking even more downcast than before, a feat that I previously would have believed impossible.

"Because you wouldn't have believed me."

"Yes I would," he protested.

"You haven't in the past," I pointed out.

"That's because you were only talking about rumours in the past. This is different."

"So you're honestly trying to tell me you would have trusted my word over that of your two best friends? I think not, Potter."

"I would have," he said stubbornly.

Sighing deeply, I decided not to continue arguing the point. "I would have told you eventually, anyway," I said instead. "I wanted to give them a chance to tell you first."

"Since when do you care about Ron and Hermione's wellbeing?" he asked, looking at me rather strangely. Perhaps the potion’s effects were beginning to kick in. "I would have thought you’d love to be able to hurt them as much as possible.”

"I would," I said, shrugging. "But they weren't really the ones who were going to get hurt, were they?"

"Oh." Potter's eyes widened comically as the full meaning of my words finally made it to his brain. "Oh!"

I smiled weakly before turning to glare at the distant vial. I had not meant to imply that I minded at all whether or not Potter's fragile little feelings were hurt.

"I can't believe you were actually worried about me," Potter gushed in a most unflattering way.

"I wasn't," I snapped.

He shook his head, messy hair flying in all directions. "You've said it now. There's no point in trying to take it back."

“I said nothing of the sort."

Potter shrugged and didn't say anything else on the subject, but his thoughts were implied by the triumphant smile that had taken over his face. Going by the slight glaze to his eyes, the quick-acting potion was definitely beginning to work its magic on him, although I was yet to notice any significant difference in my own thoughts or movements.

"So, what did they say when you caught them?" he asked finally

I forced myself to remember the horrible scene. "They accused me of being a voyeur and then tried to convince me that you were better off not knowing."

"Are you?" he asked, latching onto the wrong part of my statement in my opinion.

"Not with them, I'm not!"

"Me neither. If it were someone more attractive, though…" He grinned evilly. "Like Sirius and Professor Lupin, for example."

I stared at him in horror. "That potion really does do appalling things to your brain, Potter."

"Don't tell me you've never considered it."

"I admit that Black is vaguely attractive in an Azkaban Chic sort of way, but I could never be interested in watching a person who dresses like Lupin having sex."

"I don't think clothes would be involved.”

"Do you mind?” I said. “Thanks to you, I'll be having nightmares for months."

"I suppose it'll be a nice change from dreaming about me." His smile was innocent, but it didn’t fool me for a second.

"You wish."

Potter’s smile grew a little wider. "Don’t you want to ask me whether I ever dream about you?"

"No," I replied, my eyebrow twitching. "And I don't think you really want to tell me anyway. You'll hate yourself for it in the morning."

Potter looked at his watch. "It is morning."

"That's hardly the point."

Ignoring me entirely, he bumbled on merrily. "I have, you know."

"Honestly, Potter, I really would rather you didn't tell me."

"Don’t worry, I'm not going to go into the details," he laughed. "That'd be embarrassing."

"Good. Now, aren’t we meant to be talking about your horny little friends?" I asked, hoping against hope that he'd accept my change of subject. It was bad enough that I had to deal with my own dreams about Potter without being forced to think about the fact that he was also dreaming about me. Or, for that matter, the feeling of inexplicable pleasure that his revelation had provoked.

"Do we have to?" he complained, pouting.

I tried to drag my eyes away from his lips. "It is why you're here, remember?"

"True. It's just so damn depressing."

"The betrayal?" I asked, trying to sound as sympathetic as I could in an attempt to keep him off the subjects of dreams and the sex lives of my former professors.

"That too, I guess," he said. “But I was more thinking about the fact that they're presumably shagging each other all over the place while I'm still a bloody virgin!"

I gaped at him, my chin falling to somewhere in the vicinity of my knees. "I did not want to know that," I said finally, closing my eyes as though to block out the memory of his words. "And you didn't really want to tell me. I should never have let you drink any of that stuff."

He shrugged, letting his body fall back against the cushions of the couch. "You had some too," he muttered sullenly.

"True, but I can obviously hold my potions a lot better than you can."

"Holding them’s easy," he said.

I shook my head in disbelief. "I can’t believe I'm actually sitting here with you instead of being happily fast asleep in bed."

"Missing the company of Crabbe and Goyle, are you?" Potter teased.

"At least they don’t start going on about their sex lives whenever there's a break in conversation.”

"I don't have a sex life," he grumbled.

"That’s hardly surprising. But what do you want me to do about it?"

"Well…" He lifted his head to grin evilly at me.

"No!" I held up a hand as though to ward off the suggestion.

He shrugged. "It was worth a try. And you do look even hotter with your hair all messy like that."

"There's that word again," I muttered.

"Besides," Potter went on, ignoring me, "I've just had a horrible shock. You should be comforting me or something."

"I'm here, aren't I?" I replied crossly. "That's a lot more than I can say for Weasley and Granger."

"I was expecting them to come after me," he admitted, his face falling.

"I guess they had better things to do."

My sip of the potion must have finally started to kick in, as I immediately began to regret my words as soon as I saw the pained look in Potter's eyes.

"I guess so," he said quietly, looking as though he was about to burst into tears.

"Don't you go crying on me, Potter," I said gruffly, trying to irritate him out of his sudden slump. "There's nothing less attractive than a maudlin drunk."

"I don't see what difference it'd make," he argued. "You don't find me attractive anyway."

"And you don't find me attractive either when you're sober," I threw back, exasperated. I really hadn't planned to spend my night babysitting an intoxicated Potter.

"What would you know?" Raising his knees to his chest, he shut his eyes, as though attempting to block me out. "You're just my enemy, right?"

"Right," I agreed. "And, as your sworn enemy, I don't like other people moving in on my territory. It's my job to hurt you, not Weasley's or Granger's."

My comment actually elicited a slight smile from Potter. "Your mind works in a bloody strange way, Malfoy."

"I don't see what's so strange about it," I protested.

"It's quite sweet in a way," he mused.

"It's sweet that I want to hurt you?"

"It's sweet that you're so possessive," he corrected.

"I am not sweet."

"You're sweeter than my supposed best friends," he replied, looking as though someone had just punched him.

I really wasn't sure what I was supposed to say to that. I'd never had the sort of friendships that required any sort of emotional support on my behalf. Crabbe and Goyle were more to me than henchmen, despite what the Gryffindors might think, but the absolute last thing we'd ever choose to do was to discuss feelings with each other. I’d never really seen the point. Obviously, it had been different with Pansy, especially in the wake of her father’s death, but comforting a grieving girlfriend was nothing like trying to deal with Potter. I had no experience at all when it came to cheering an enemy, and the slight fuzziness in my mind—whether it were caused by the potion or by sleep deprivation—wasn’t particularly conducive to ad-libbing.

"Can we please dispense with the term 'sweet'?" I asked finally, hoping that I might be able to avoid the issue entirely.

"I can't do anything right," was his petulant response.

 _He really is awfully susceptible to that potion,_ I thought, amused, as I reached out a hand to awkwardly pat him on the back. "You really shouldn't worry about what those two do. They're not worth it."

Potter leaned into my hand, effectively wrapping my arm halfway around his shoulders. Feeling that it would be a little too cruel for me to pull away with him in that state, I let him stay in the position, trying to ignore the feeling of his body as it rested, warm, against my arm.

"If I didn't think that they were worth it, I wouldn't feel this bad," he said, demonstrating a remarkable amount of logic for someone in his drunken state.

"I guess not."

He shifted a little, moving in closer to my side, and actually had the audacity to rest his head on my shoulder. Its weight felt strangely natural, however, and I found myself increasingly reluctant to push him away. For some perverse reason, I was actually not hating the contact.

"You know, for a Slytherin, you're not too bad, all things considered," he said quietly after a few moments of silence.

"That's no way to talk to your worst enemy," I teased.

"You're not so much my worst enemy as my best enemy," he slurred, and wrapped an arm tightly around my waist for emphasis.

It burnt, and I somehow didn’t mind.

His eyes began to drift closed and I smiled. "You're about to fall asleep," I said.

"Um," was his only response.

"You can't sleep here," I told him, feeling a slight pang of regret. "If anyone sees you, we'll both be in big trouble. Not to mention the rumours."

"I don't want to go back to my dorm," he whined. "I might… walk in on something."

"I can arrange to get rid of them," I offered. "For good, I mean."

"You sound like you're in the Mafia."

"Mafia?"

"They're like a Muggle version of the Death Eaters."

"Oh. Well then?"

He looked up at me, obviously amused. "I can't believe you're actually asking me whether I want you to arrange my best friends’ deaths!”

"Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of expulsion," I clarified. Murder always seemed like such a messy thing.

"Since when have you ever managed to get someone expelled?" he teased.

I glared at him. "That's the last time I ever offer to help you, Potter!"

"I dare say." His arm grew a little tighter around my waist, growing bolder in the face of my inability to push him away. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure," I replied, and then instantly thought better of it.

His voice was almost a whisper. "Do you really think I have lovely eyes?"

I looked down at him, his chin still resting against my chest, but the rest of his head raised so that he could meet my gaze with his own. Reaching up with my free arm, I clumsily removed Potter's glasses, frowning as I examined the sight before me. The potion seemed to make something inside my chest squirm alarmingly as I replied. "I've seen worse. Much worse."

His smile, although a fraction lop-sided, was chillingly hypnotic. "You're all blurry."

I returned the glasses to their usual position. "Better?"

He giggled. "Nope. Still blurry. I think I might be a little bit drunk."

"Only a little?" I replied, just as a sharp flapping heralded the arrival of another owl. "What the hell?"

"Pigwidgeon!" Potter exclaimed, unfolding the paper and reading the message out loud. "Where are you? We've looked everywhere. Can we please talk about this?" He laughed bitterly. "They've signed it Ron and Hermione. I suppose I'm going to have to get used to that."

"You should go," I told him, if for no reason other than to convince him to leave before the potion made me do or say anything particularly humiliating.

"You’re right." He looked less than enthused, but stood up anyway, dragging me to my feet once he'd done so. "I don't want to, but I'm going to have to face them sometime, I guess. And they'll end up losing points for Gryffindor if they keep wandering the halls at this time of night."

I walked him to the door, reaching out to lay a steadying hand on his shoulder when he stumbled slightly just before reaching the exit. Instead of departing, however, he turned back to me, his eyes filled with emotion. "Thanks," he said simply, and then he did something completely unexpected. Wrapping his arms firmly around my torso, he leaned in and covered my mouth with his lips.

The kiss was not particularly passionate; his lips were soft and warm, but they weren’t insistent and he didn't attempt to introduce his tongue. It didn’t progress beyond a light, maddening contact, which confused every nerve of my body and cast a dull haze over my mind. It took me far too long to break away, and even longer to recover from the shock enough to speak.

"Don't ever do that again, Potter," I snapped, my anger directed more at myself than at him. "Ever."

He frowned. "Why not?"

I used every last iota of my self control to stop myself from simply dragging him towards me for another kiss, knowing that if I succumbed to the urge I might never let him go. "Because I don't want you to," I said stupidly, attempting to calm my breathing. "You're my enemy and… I hate you." The words were a mere formula now, easy to say but near impossible to feel.

He blinked a couple of times, his expression pained, but then his eyes hardened. "I wouldn't want to," he spat. "You're a hopeless kisser anyway, Malfoy."

"What do you expect when it's you who's kissing me," I threw back, trying to appear unmoved by his insult.

"Prat."

"Bastard."

"Slytherin."

"Gryffindor."

For a moment, his face softened a little, but then his jaw tightened as he took in the icy glare plastered to my face. "God I hate you, Malfoy," he said. "I really don't know why I came here tonight."

"Don't look to me for answers," I retorted.

"Remind me never to touch one of your potions again," he said, and then departed without further comment.

I was left alone in the common room, the touch of Potter’s lips still a burning brand upon my own.

"I hate him," I muttered out loud, more to convince myself than for any other reason. "He's too good and boring and trusting and his eyes are stupid and I hate him."

But, as I returned to my dormitory, all I could seem to think about was the memory of the weight of his head on my chest and the warm tingle of his lips as they brushed softly against my own.

 

*

 

At breakfast the next day, Potter was sitting with Weasley and Granger as though nothing had happened. The exhausted set of their bodies, however, suggested that they had spent much of the night talking. Despite his seating arrangement, Potter still didn't look particularly happy. It occurred to me that he might be there solely because he had nowhere else to be.

He didn't look at me as I passed him on my way to the Slytherin table, still cursing myself for the previous night's activities. The worst part was that I could remember absolutely everything—from our conversation to the feel of Potter's lips—which meant that I'd barely been under the influence of the potion at all. I was furious at myself for what I’d done, and furious at Potter for somehow tricking me into playing the role of a sympathetic friend. And, most of all, I was furious that a part of me was more distressed by the way we had parted company than it was revolted by the kiss.

I felt too ill to eat any of the breakfast spread in front of me. Crabbe and Goyle chattered inanely about the weather and our Potions homework on either side of me, but I barely heard their words. Yet again, Potter’s influence had managed to turn me into someone else entirely. Someone I didn’t recognise. Someone I didn't like. Someone who seemed to enjoy the company of my sworn enemy.

Over at the Gryffindor table, Weasley and Granger were joking about something, Weasley’s laugh rising loud and desperate above the other breakfast noise. It elicited no more than a small, strained smile from Potter, but it seemed like only I could see his discomfort. Weasley grinned and stretched an arm around the back of Granger's chair, either not noticing or not caring about the hurt that I could see so clearly in Potters eyes.

Before I could think better of it, I cut Goyle off mid-sentence and slid my chair noisily back from the table. I stalked over to the Gryffindor table, where I glared down at the two sickening lovebirds for a moment before speaking. “Your idea of friendship leaves a lot to be desired.”

Weasley returned my glare. "And we all value your opinions so highly, Malfoy," he said sarcastically.

"If you're here to cause a scene, you're too late," Granger added. "Harry already knows. We told him last night."

"Oh, did you?" I replied, one eyebrow raised. I turned to Potter, who refused to look at me. "Potter, can I talk to you? Away from these two?"

He didn't look happy, but followed me to a quieter corner of the room nonetheless.

"She lied," I said bluntly.

Potter shrugged. "It's easier this way."

"And they don't know you were with me last night."

"Why would I want to tell them that?"

His features were hard, his eyes staring past me rather than looking at me and his mouth pulled into a harsh line. For some stupid reason, his anger didn't seem to amuse me any more. Instead, I felt weak and like I was frozen inside. It struck me, then, that he had rarely looked better.

"Look, about last night," I began, succumbing to the cliché for want of anything more original to say.

"I was intoxicated," he interrupted, his voice cold. “You know that.”

"I didn't really mind," I admitted, feeling very altruistic. I half expected him to leap into my arms with relief.

Potter obviously had different ideas. “Well, I did,” he snapped, looking straight at me for the first time, the dull cast of his eyes almost unrecognisable. ”Don’t worry. I won’t bother you again.”

"But I want—" I began, before quickly stopping myself and forcibly twisting my mouth into a smirk. "Good," I said instead, snapping into enemy mode. "I wish you could’ve decided that weeks ago, before you kept me up half the night with your whining."

He rolled his eyes. "Oh, fuck off, Malfoy," he said, his tone completely bereft of emotion, and wandered back over to his so-called friends.

As I watched him go, my ego still stinging a little from his words, a terrible realisation began to form in my mind. For the first time in all the years I'd known Potter, I was actually starting to respect him. And, more horrifying still, his ruthless rejection had somehow served to make me want to change his mind.

I followed Potter’s progress with my eyes, noting the slumped curve of his shoulders and the fake line of his smile when he sat back beside his friends. My own smile was real. I nodded, resolute, and turned towards the Slytherin table.

Potter would learn that no one rejected Draco Malfoy, not even an annoying do-gooder like himself.


	8. The Thrill of the Chase

The first time I kissed a girl, I was eight. Her name was Julia, she was the daughter of one of my father's friends and, at 10, she seemed the epitome of sophistication to me. She had brown pigtails and freckles, and she tasted like strawberry ice cream. Our lips wouldn't have touched for more than a second, but I felt very grown up all the same.

My first real kiss came when I was 14. It was the night of the Hogwarts Yule Ball and it was expected of me. I kissed Pansy Parkinson and she kissed me back, while most of the Slytherin house watched and approved. It did nothing for me. Her mouth was cool and slippery and she smelled like expensive perfume.

The first time a boy kissed me, I was 17 and in my final year at Hogwarts. It was in the Slytherin common room in the middle of the night, and it was my greatest enemy who wrapped his arms around my body and pressed soft lips to my own. The contact was brief but significant. We shared a breath… and then the moment broke.

 

*

 

"Potter." I grabbed his shoulder as he pushed past my desk in an attempt to escape the Potions classroom as quickly as possible. "We need to talk."

He stared at me with uninterested eyes, his gaze skimming lightly over my face and body. "Oh yes?" He smiled slightly, the corners of his lips twitching mockingly. "I can't see what we could possibly have to discuss."

At his side, Ron Weasley glared at me. "Surely you've better things to do with your time than annoying us."

I raised a solitary eyebrow. "Us? You barely even exist to me, Weasley."

"I could say the same for you," Potter replied coolly.

I gaped at him. "You can't possibly mean that," I argued, quite confident in my own existence, not just in Potter's little universe, but also in the world at large.

"Well, I guess not literally," he replied. I smiled triumphantly, but the grin froze on my lips as Potter went on. "After all, I'm standing here right now, being talked at by you. Figuratively speaking, however, I meant what I said. You mean nothing to me, Malfoy."

I shook my head. "I don't believe you."

"Why does that not surprise me?" Without another word, Potter turned and left the classroom, Weasley trailing along behind him like the good little sidekick he was.

As I watched him go, I felt very relieved that there had been no one else around to witness our exchange. It always amazed me just how quickly a room would clear whenever it seemed likely that Potter and I would become embroiled in yet another conflict. After six years’ worth of incidents, our peers had begun to see any interaction between us as a threat to the peace—rightfully so, perhaps. Normally, I wouldn’t have minded an audience but, on this occasion at least, I was glad that a cluster of giggling Gryffindors hadn’t been present to witness Potter’s latest rejection of my offer to talk.

Over the last week, I had attempted to speak to Potter on several occasions, but I had met with little success. It was as though he had been completely unmoved by what had happened the last time we were alone. I wondered whether he had even managed to forget kissing me completely. If so, I envied him. I had not been so lucky. My mind seemed determined to punish me for the incident, presenting me with vivid flashbacks at the most inopportune moments. I would be in the middle of answering a question from Snape when a sudden image of Potter’s eyes, staring at me from only inches away, would blink into my consciousness and completely distract me from the task at hand. Worse still were the times when I would be struck with the memory of the warm brush of his lips against my own, which never failed to make my breath catch in my throat. I would be forced to shake my head violently to dispel the imagined pressure, which had earned me a curious stare on more than one occasion. Yes, if Potter had already managed to forget everything, then he had gotten off very lightly, especially when you considered that the kiss had been entirely his fault.

If asked, I would never admit it, but I almost missed him. It was funny how you could become used to things. I had always thought that I would be elated if Potter were no longer a part of my life, but it was different when his absence was on his terms, instead of on my own. He had no right to kiss me and then refuse to even discuss it. He had no right to act like nothing had happened when we both knew that it had.

I wasn't used to being ignored. Especially not by Potter. For six years, he had been a constant and irritating reminder of my inability to expel him from my life. And then, with the start of the new school year, things had begun to change. If anything, he was around even more, but our interactions were different. We still argued, but we had periods of pleasant conversation as well. I had even started to grow accustomed to his inane chatter and idealistic opinions. We were still enemies—what else could we be?—but there had been more and more moments where I would temporarily forget it, caught up in a compliment or in his fond teasing.

And then everything changed again. Potter kissed me.

I would love to be able to say that I hated it, love to say I felt disgusted, or nauseated, or many other words that didn’t describe my feelings at all. It wasn’t like that, though. I was too surprised to be angry and too stunned to know whether I despised the contact or not. I did stop him, at least; I clung to that knowledge as reassurance that I wasn’t entirely insane. But did I stop him because I wanted to… or because I felt I should?

There was something very powerful in the knowledge that someone found me attractive. Not simply the mute admiration that I'm sure most—if not all—of the girls at Hogwarts felt for me, but rather an attraction so deep that it could prompt my greatest enemy to kiss me. In the moment when Potter's lips met mine, it seemed like things had changed forever. In casting aside his long-stated loathing of me, Potter did more than simply solidify something that had been suggested for weeks. He succumbed. He conceded defeat. I had won.

But then he took it back. I pushed him away, and this time he actually left.

Things did change. There were no more hurried conversations in the corridors when no one was watching, no more gentle teasing in order to fill in a few spare minutes in Potions or Care of Magical Creatures. I didn't even catch him looking at me across the Great Hall at mealtimes any more. When I attempted to talk to him, Potter would either ignore me entirely, or cut me down with a few well-chosen words. Somehow he had managed to turn my victory into a loss, to turn his weakness into my own. I couldn't help but respect that, enemies or not.

That didn’t mean that I was willing to leave things how they were, however. Potter couldn’t just disappear from my life simply because he wanted to. It didn’t work like that. I had become inured to his presence. Hating Harry Potter had always been one of the most satisfying parts of my life, and I didn’t intend to let him deny me that pleasure. Besides—I had a victory to reclaim.

If it took me 10 years, I was going to make Potter admit that he was still attracted to me. And then I was going to break his foolish little heart.

 

*

 

Crabbe had turned his lunch into a sickly looking mash of colours, swirling his fork around in the mess as he related his latest story to our area of the Slytherin table. His wide face was unusually animated, his eyebrows darting upwards on every second word and his mouth not so much speaking each syllable as performing it. As I slid into the chair beside him, he paused mid-sentence, turning to regard me with curious eyes. "Where've you been?"

"I stayed behind in the Potions room for a while," I muttered, not about to relate my latest conversation with Potter to the dozen or so of my housemates within hearing distance. "There was something I needed to sort out."

"What was that?" Goyle asked from my right, oblivious to the 'no questions please' look on my face.

"Just some homework," I lied. "Nothing of interest."

"I can't believe Snape actually wants us to have that growth potion mastered by next week," Pansy complained. "It's Halloween tomorrow. Does he honestly expect us to do any homework?"

"This is Snape," I pointed out, loading my plate from the platters in front of me. "He's probably already been to Dumbledore to complain about the prospect of us actually having fun tomorrow evening."

"I'd have a lot more fun if we didn't have to wear our dress robes." Goyle looked absolutely horrified at the prospect. "It's only the Halloween feast, after all."

"I think it's a wonderful idea," Pansy said. "I love dressing up. It's just a pity that we're not allowed to go with dates, like we were for the Yule Ball, back in fourth year." She looked at me rather pointedly. "That was a lovely night."

I was already having a bad enough day without having to deal with more guilt from Pansy. "No it wasn't,” I said, a hint of frustration in my voice. “Potter was on display all evening like some idiotic hero. I have better things to do with my time than watching him step on some Gryffindor girl's feet in a parody of dancing." I glanced over at the Gryffindor table and was annoyed to see the boy in question laughing merrily at something that Finnegan was saying to him, rather than gazing adoringly across the room at me. "I'm surprised he managed to get a date at all."

"I would have gone with him."

Everyone else turned to stare at Daphne in horror. She met our gazes without blinking, in an unusual show of resolve.

Pansy was the first to regain the power of speech. "Why on earth would you do that?" she asked, her voice rising to a glass-breaking pitch.

"He's famous, isn't he?" Daphne shrugged. "And it's not as though he's hideous or anything."

"No?" I leaned across the table to glare at her from a closer range. "Call yourself a Slytherin?"

"No self-respecting Slytherin would ever date Harry Potter," Millicent agreed. "It would be like dating a Mudblood. No, worse than that. Mudbloods didn’t kill the Dark Lord.”

"Well, I don't care," Daphne said obstinately. "Harry Potter could have anyone. If he chose you, it would almost be like winning an award. Just imagine what it would feel like to know that out of everyone at Hogwarts, you were the one he found attractive. Out of _everyone_. No one could say no to that."

I stabbed a potato viciously with my fork. "I could."

"That's different. You're a boy." Daphne looked at me as though I was mad to even suggest it. "And besides, Potter would never be interested in you. He hates you too much."

"Since when do hate and attraction have to be mutually exclusive?" I demanded.

"They don't." Pansy looked at me curiously. "But you don't honestly think Potter would ever fall in love with you, do you, Draco?"

I let my gaze flicker back over to the Gryffindor table. Potter was now deep in conversation with Weasley and Granger, whom he seemed to have completely forgiven for their betrayal, like the forbearing fool he was. They were now openly dating, their chairs pushed close together and their hands resting on the top of the table with their fingers intertwined. The pairing had garnered little interest amongst their fellow students. Most had already suspected that there had been something more than friendships between them, and the rest simply didn't care.

Although Potter gave the external appearance of having come to terms with his best friends' duplicity, I had my doubts about whether things were indeed quite as perfect as he would have the rest of the world believe. I had been the one he'd turned to when the truth was discovered; I had been the one who had seen his eyes fill with shadows and his mouth struggle to hold its line. I had been the only person to see the extent of Potter's hurt and, as such, was not ready to believe that such misery could be so easily forgotten.

I also remembered the way that he had looked at me only a week ago, his eyes darting appraisingly over my sleep-mussed hair and his lips twisting into an approving smile. I refused to believe that even someone as peculiar as Potter could undergo such a complete change of emotions in only six days. He was strange, but not _that_ strange.

"I think I could _make_ him fall in love with me," I replied finally, turning back to my friends.

"No way," Goyle said confidently. "Potter's a lot of things, but he's not gay."

"He is, actually," I said without thinking.

Everyone stared at me.

"And how would you know that?" Daphne asked, her tone betraying the fact that she was still annoyed at me for criticising her willingness to date him.

"I guess I just heard it somewhere," I muttered, refusing to meet any of my friends' eyes. "Besides, you said yourself that he could have any girl he liked. If that’s the case, why’s he still single?”

“Perhaps he’s picky,” she argued.

“He’s too short to be picky,” Goyle said.

“He’s _famous_.”

Millicent snorted. “Famously short.”

"I can't believe Potter's interested in boys," Pansy murmured, her face unreadable. "I never would have thought. Explains a lot, though. I wonder if he's ever done anything with Weasley."

"You'd have to be desperate." Goyle threw a disparaging look towards the person in question. "What about Oliver Wood, though? The two of them were pretty friendly back in fourth year."

"Actually, I heard a couple of rumours about Potter and Diggery," Pansy offered. "Remember how upset he was when Diggery died?"

“That was his fault, though,” I argued. “He was just feeling guilty because Diggery died when it was supposed to be him. I don’t think there was anything between the two of them.”

"You're the one who's so sure that Potter's gay," Pansy said, shrugging.

"I just can't see him with any of those people." Frowning, I pushed my plate away, suddenly not feeling very hungry any more.

"Jealous, are you?" Daphne teased.

"Of Potter's little love interests? I think not." Irritated, I slid my chair back from the table and got to my feet.

"You're just upset because he's never going to be interested in you," Daphne continued.

I stared down at her, my eyes darkening. "You're a very annoying person, Greengrass, did you know that?"

"Prove me wrong, then, if you're so worried about it."

"I don't have to prove anything to you." I glared at her for a few seconds longer, before turning and stalking out of the room.

Long before I made it back to the Slytherin area, a bellow of footsteps announced the arrival of Crabbe and Goyle. While they puffed and panted in an elaborate show of unfitness, I made myself busy carving 'Gryffindor sucks' into a nearby gargoyle.

"Don't worry about Daphne," Goyle said finally, his breath still ragged and his face a brilliant shade of puce. "She's just annoyed because no one wants to date her. She must be pretty desperate if she’s willing to go out with Potter."

"Yeah," Crabbe contributed. "If Potter's not interested in you, it's a good thing. Just imagine having Mister I'm-So-Wonderful following around behind you all the time."

"Hmm," was my only response.

"You should be glad that he doesn’t have the hots for you," Goyle continued.

Nodding, I stared beyond my friends, my eyes focusing more on the air itself than on any particular object. "I'm going to make Potter fall in love with me," I murmured, more for my own benefit than for theirs.

Crabbe and Goyle stared at me for a moment before looking at each other in horror. Goyle was the first to regain the power of speech. "Why the hell would you want to do that?"

I smiled. "Because I can."

Leaving them to struggle with their confusion, I resumed my journey back to the common room. If I were going to succeed, I had some planning to do.

 

*

 

Over the next 24 hours, I tried my hardest to achieve my goal. I had my first opportunity during Quidditch practice. Normally, things were arranged so that the various house teams trained on different nights, to avoid heckling and 'accidental' collisions. Sometimes, however, the general rule was waived, for one reason or another. A team might need to break in a new player, for example, or the weather forecast for their usual practice day might not be favourable for Quidditch. Usually, such occasions passed without great incident. Rivalry was all very well, but none of us wanted our own players to be injured.

Therefore, when the Gryffindor Quidditch team turned up half way through our Slytherin practice session, they were received with a few groans and snide comments, but nothing particularly damaging. While Hart and Edwards amused the others by doing Potter impressions (using the tried-and-true method of circled fingers as spectacles), I turned my broomstick towards the ground, to see what Potter's excuse was for bringing his team onto the pitch in Slytherin's allocated time.

As I drew nearer to the Gryffindor team, I became aware that Potter was watching my descent. Smirking inwardly, I decided to make the most of his attention—after all, it had been too rare in recent times to let it pass unexploited. Deciding that our captain-to-captain meeting wasn't quite so urgent after all, I pulled my broom into a sharp turn to the right, travelling a few metres in that direction before launching into several quick loop-the-loop manoeuvres in fast succession.

Straightening out for a moment, I returned my gaze to Potter, to make sure that he was watching my performance. His eyes were certainly still trained on me, but his mouth wasn't quite wearing the awed smile I had been hoping for. Rather, one eyebrow was raised in silent disdain, and his mouth twitched with derision. My pulse jumped with anger and, as though responding to a mental rather than physical directive, my broomstick jolted downwards.

Leaning forward, I increased the pitch of the dive. My blood began to rush with adrenalin instead of fury as the churning air whipped my robes behind me in a silver and green wake. My own mouth stretched into an exaggerated smirk as I aimed directly for Potter.

He stood his ground, as I knew he would. The only indication that he was aware of my angle was a slight narrowing of his eyes and a nearly imperceptible tightening of his shoulders. His stoicism was almost impressive. Valuing my own safety too much to attempt a deliberate impact, I changed my trajectory at the very last moment, making a perfect landing less than a footstep away from him.

"Afternoon, Potter."

"You enjoyed making a spectacle of yourself, I presume?"

"You seemed happy enough to watch me."

Potter shook his head, his eyes rolling skywards. "You flatter yourself, Malfoy."

I dropped my voice to barely more than a whisper, moving forward slightly so that only he could hear me. "We're back to a last name basis again, are we?"

"When have you ever called me Harry?" he replied disdainfully.

I discarded the irrelevant question. "Why are you here? It's our night for the pitch."

"They're expecting a storm tomorrow afternoon. You know the rules."

I nodded tersely, not very pleased with his blatant lack of interest in my aerial gymnastics. "You take the far end. We'll try not to send too many Bludgers in your direction."

"I'm sure we can handle them." His eyes trailed slowly over my form, his expression guarded. "Now, if you don't mind moving, I'd like to get some practice in sometime before next year."

"Ha ha," I muttered as he pushed past me. Torn between impotent rage and amazement at Potter's unprecedented resilience when it came to the Malfoy charm, I glared after him for a moment before re-joining my own team.

 

*

 

It wasn't until the following morning that I received my next chance to floor Potter with my intellectual brilliance and arresting good looks. I had attempted to accidentally cross paths with him in the Hogwarts hallways several times during the previous evening, but had managed only to step on Mrs Norris's tail and have half the contents of Madam Hooch's wardrobe tossed over my head by Peeves.

Such minor setbacks did not darken my objective for long, however. As I entered the Great Hall for breakfast the next day, I already had a plan beginning to form within my mind. Smoothing down my hair, I threw a calculating glance in the direction of the Gryffindor table before taking a seat between Pansy and Goyle.

While my friends chatted loudly to either side of me, I remained relatively silent, concentrating on my meal and on the task before me. If Crabbe or Goyle noticed my unusual reticence, they didn't choose to comment on it, instead focusing their attention on the rapid consumption of what seemed like several times their body weight in eggs and bacon.

Finally, the clatter of cutlery on china began to soften to an occasional grating of metal and the first students started to drift away from the long tables so that they could return to their quarters to gather their books and materials for class. I chose my timing perfectly. Too soon and I risked embarrassing myself in front of scores of Gryffindors, too late and I risked missing my chance altogether.

As Weasley rose from the Gryffindor table and made his way to the door, I pushed my plate away and slid my chair back, the movement teasing a scraping, spine-chilling noise from the stone floor beneath me. Ignoring the pained looks of my housemates, I quickly shoved the chair back into place before striding purposefully towards my target.

"Morning, Granger," I said lightly, as I slipped into the chair beside her.

From the other side of the table, Potter watched me over his bacon while trying to look as though he weren't at all interested in my sudden appearance. Granger, however, was less subtle in her reaction.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" she asked coolly. Taking a sip of orange juice, she glanced over at Potter as though to communicate some opinion on my arrival. When no response seemed to be forthcoming, she returned her attention to me. "Well?"

"What makes you think I want something?" I tried my best to look innocent and pained by her cynicism.

"Because you'd never dream of talking to me if you didn't have an ulterior motive," she replied bluntly.

"You think so little of me." I clapped a hand to my heart. "I feel so... wounded."

"Good." She intensified her glare a little before returning her gaze to the glass within her hand.

"So," I continued, pasting what I hoped was a friendly-looking smile upon my face. "Which class do you have first?"

Granger stared at me as though I were mad. "Care of Magical Creatures," she replied. "With you. Remember?"

"Of course." I laughed lightly, checking for a reaction from Potter out of the corner of my eye. "I must have been too blinded by your beauty to remember such unimportant details."

"You're beginning to scare me, Malfoy." Her eyes remained firmly on me, but her mouth twitched slightly with confusion. "It's too early in the morning for this sort of thing."

"What sort of thing?" I widened my eyes another few millimetres.

"Oh, for goodness’ sake." Shaking her head, she turned to Potter. "Do you know what this is about?"

He seemed determined not to look at me, instead gazing at Granger with no apparent emotion on his face. "I have a fair idea."

I ignored his words, reaching out a hand to lightly push a strand of Granger's hair away from her face. She gaped at me in what seemed like a cross between curiosity and abject terror. I allowed my hand to linger for a moment on her cheek before letting it drop. Leaning forward, I stared unblinkingly into her eyes. "You are beautiful, you know," I murmured, shuddering inwardly with the horror of uttering the blatant lie.

Granger's only response was to blink a few times, her eyes wide and stunned. If nothing else, it was mildly gratifying to confirm that my talents of attraction were still in perfect working order, despite anything Potter might have me believe.

"Ignore him." As though reading my thoughts, Potter spoke again, not even bothering to look up from the remains of his breakfast this time. "This is all just some elaborate—and extremely transparent—ploy to make me jealous."

"Jealous?" I smiled disdainfully at him. "I haven't a clue what you're talking about, Potter. Now, if you don't mind, I'm trying to talk to Granger."

"I do mind," he replied coolly. "If you have a problem with me, then direct it to me. Don’t involve my friends in your pathetic attempts to look as though you're slightly less than repulsive to the opposite sex."

"I'm attempting nothing of the sort." It was rapidly becoming more difficult to maintain my disinterested air. "Just because you don't want me, that doesn't mean the rest of the school population feels the same way."

"Really?" His tone was impeccably bored. I wondered when he had become so proficient at my own tactics.

"Really," I replied firmly. "I can guarantee you that if I were to ask out any one of the Slytherin girls, they would be too busy counting their blessings to manage anything more than a squeak of acceptance."

"Yes, well, if I were Millicent Bulstrode, I'd probably be glad of a date with a goblin if he were foolish enough to ask."

I smiled benignly. "Whatever you'd like to believe, Potter. Try not to become too caught up in your fantasy." Turning back to Granger, I forced my smile into what I hoped was a seductive grin. "So," I began, leaning in so that our noses were almost touching. "What are you doing after the Halloween Feast tonight?"

She blinked rapidly, so obviously taken aback that it was quite comical. "What?"

"What are you doing after the feast?" I repeated calmly. "I'd like to spend some time with you." I leaned forward the final inch, allowing my nose to brush lightly against her own before withdrawing slightly. "Alone."

Somewhere in the background, Potter laughed. Imagining it to be a hysterical by-product of jealousy, I paid little attention to the noise apart from a quick mental smirk at his rediscovered desire for me.

The rough hand on my shoulder was a little harder to ignore, however, as was the violent way in which I was pulled away from Granger, turned and shoved into the table. The wooden surface pressed painfully into my kidneys as I raised my gaze to see a furious Ron Weasley glaring down at me.

"Hermione has plans tonight," he stated, very slowly and very calmly. "Hermione has plans every night where you're concerned."

"Surely that's for her to decide." I turned to give Granger my best salacious look. "I mean, she didn't seem too worried about prior engagements until you turned up."

The hand grew a little tighter around my shoulder.

"Jealous, weasel?" I taunted him. "First Potter prefers me to you, and then Granger. That can't be much fun."

He opened his mouth as if to say something, but the combination of anger and fear that I had discovered the truth seemed to render him speechless. I snickered lightly. And then he punched me.

The fist connected with my nose in an eruption of agony, his knuckles branding my skin as the force of the blow knocked me backwards. He did not strike me again, but the pain continued to beat a dizzying rhythm in my head, my eyesight blurred by shock and by my affront at his temerity. Blinking a couple of times, I raised a shaky hand to my wounded nose, drawing it away again in horror as my fingers came into contact with warm, sticky fluid. Blood.

"Clever, Weasley, very clever," I spat, trying to ignore the metallic taste of blood on the back of my tongue. I turned to glare at a stunned-looking Potter, before directing my gaze back to my assailant. "You'll pay for this."

"What are you going to do? Tell your daddy?" His tone was mocking.

I wiped away some of the steady flow of blood with my sleeve. The mess that my injury was creating was disturbing me more than the constant throbbing that seemed to have invaded my head for good. I desired nothing more than a shower, a clean change of clothes, and then a quick healing spell from Madam Pomfrey. "Perhaps."

Gathering as much dignity as I could muster with a nose that was oozing blood like lava, I pushed Weasley out of my way and began to head for the door. As I reached the exit, I looked back, expecting Potter to be watching me with apologetic eyes. He was staring firmly at the table, however, his back straight and his jaw tight. Granger looked sympathetic, but that meant nothing to me now that my attempted seduction had earned me no more than a possible broken nose.

My shoulders sagged a little as I left, closing the doors behind me. Hopefully Madam Pomfrey would be able to heal my nose with no lasting disfigurement… and hopefully Potter would be influenced by pity, given that making him jealous had failed to work.

 

*

 

The Great Hall shone with an eerie, orange light, which flickered from countless floating jack-o-lanterns. As I moved into the room, I took in the full extent of the decorations. Each table was adorned with black and orange decorations, and enchanted bats fluttered awkwardly above the chairs. The head table was a mass of elaborate orange ribbons, their festive lustre contrasting perfectly with the unimpressed scowl on Snape's face. Of all our professors, he was the only one who hadn’t used a Halloween-themed badge or posy to break the formality of his dress robes. Dumbledore was suitably attired in peacock blue robes, edged with an appallingly lurid pumpkin motif, while even McGonagall had risen to the occasion, a simple, golden bat decorating her own green robes. Hagrid looked uncomfortable in his dress robes, the fabric draping over his body like a crumpled bedspread as he nervously fingered his collar.

Dragging my gaze from the horror that was the professors' table, I felt very relieved that my fellow students had not been similarly inspired to dress for the occasion. The opportunity to dress up a little and hopefully impress a few members of the opposite sex was too rare at Hogwarts for most students to ruin the evening with flashing jack-o-lantern earrings or neon orange cufflinks. Instead, the hall was filled with chattering teenagers standing self-consciously in dress robes that were stiff from under-use. Many of the girls were nearly unrecognisable beneath their layers of carefully applied makeup, while I was forced to stare at a couple of the boys for several seconds before I could put a name to their unusually neat hair.

Pausing a second in order to perfectly time my grand entrance, I ran my fingers lightly through my own hair, denying myself the urge to smooth the strands into their usual style. My own preferences were not important that evening. Instead, I had dressed to gain and hold the attention of Harry Potter.

During breakfast a couple of days earlier, I had received a package from the Malfoy family tailor, quickly stashing it under my bed as soon as the meal was over in order to avoid the usual teasing from Crabbe and Goyle that accompanied any new clothing purchase on my behalf. Comfortable in whatever outfits their mothers had selected for them that year, neither understood the value of a well-chosen ensemble.

Tonight's outfit was just that. The silver trim of my dress robes brought out the grey in my eyes perfectly, and the soft folds of material skimmed my form in a way that I knew to be most flattering. There were no bright assaults of colour to ruin the monochromatic effect, emphasising the icy pallor of my own complexion. As an obvious concession to Potter, I had foregone my usual immaculate hairstyle and settled for the dishevelled look that he found so strangely appealing.

Even the line of my nose remained unspoiled, thanks to the talents of Madam Pomfrey. It was still slightly tender to the touch, but there was no visible sign of the damage Weasley had inflicted upon it. For this small mercy, I was exceedingly grateful. I had no desire to explain to my housemates that my twisted nose and blackened eyes were the handiwork of Potter's pathetic sidekick. Bad enough that it had happened in the first place.

Satisfied that my appearance was flawless, I continued into the room. I smiled benignly at the girls who turned to silently look at me—obviously rendered speechless by my stunning good looks—and exchanged the occasional pleasantry with any of my housemates lucky enough to cross my path.

I did not immediately seek a seat at the long Slytherin table, instead taking the opportunity to move amongst the small clusters of talking students in search of my prey. Although I could think of countless more interesting ways of spending the evening than in the dubious pleasure of Potter's company, I was well aware that the occasion was the perfect opportunity to renew his desire for me. It was as though Dumbledore had deemed the Halloween Feast a formal event this year purely for the benefit of my own designs.

After finally extracting myself from the clutches of a gushing Pansy, I turned towards the Slytherin table, growing weary of playing hide and go seek in the boisterous crowd. As a couple of Ravenclaw girls moved to one side, however, I found myself staring right into the green eyes of Harry Potter.

_Oh._

He seemed almost surprised to see me, as though he hadn't considered the possibility that I might actually be inclined to take part in compulsory school events. His hair was neat for a change, in an amusing contrast to my own, and he had obviously purchased new dress robes for the occasion, as their cut was of the very latest style. As much as I hated to admit it, he almost looked… good.

I didn't ruin the moment by speaking, instead simply smiling faintly as Potter took in my own appearance. His gaze lingered on my hair and it was hard to keep a knowing smirk from taking over my face as he swallowed visibly, his eyes darting quickly towards the floor. He was not able to look away for long, however, and I met his furtive glance with a challenging stare, one eyebrow rising in silent query.

The light from the jack-o-lanterns cast irregular shadows on his face as I watched him, enjoying his visible discomfort. He seemed completely unaware of the Gryffindors surrounding him, ignoring their conversation in favour of gormless staring. Making a mental note to thank my tailor, I briefly raised a hand in silent greeting before lowering my eyes and turning away. As gratifying as I found the glazed look in his eyes, I was not interested in a partial triumph.

 

*

 

There was nothing elegant about the form of Neville Longbottom, even clad as he was in designer robes. They looked plastic on him, their lines starkly obvious on limbs that hung awkwardly within the folds. Loose over his hunched shoulders, the fabric seemed to narrow at the waist, an optical illusion caused by the flaws of his own figure. No, he was nothing elegant, nothing remarkable... every inch the perfect pawn.

It had been too easy to tug him away from the crowd, away from the safety of his friends. Once in the relative quietness of the corridor, his isolation seemed to hit him in a wave of realisation, his body tensing like that of a trapped animal. I soothed his fears with inane small talk, commenting on the festive decorations and impressing him with my correct identification of the make of his robes.

I waited until he had relaxed a little, and then told him I needed his assistance.

He stared openly at me, his eyes wide with tentative curiosity. There was something in his open fragility that tugged at the sadist within me, imploring me to shatter his nervous smile. Instead, however, I simply smiled back and stepped a little closer, placing a light hand on the curve of his shoulder.

"Would you like to do me a favour, Neville?"

He flinched at the alien sound of me speaking his first name. "What?"

"A favour." I did not move my eyes from his own, teasing him silently with the intensity of my gaze. My fingers pressed a little firmer into his flesh, punctuating my words with that physical reminder of my nearness.

He blushed, the traitorous reaction colouring his features with embarrassment, but no visible disinterest. It seemed that I was learning much about my skills of attraction in my attempts to reclaim Potter's desire. This was more than the abstract admiration I had grown to accept and appreciate over the years. This was a previously untapped power, the power to fluster and silence with the strength of an unwavering look or the feather-light touch of a hand, apparent in the look of blatant confusion and desire that shone from Longbottom's face.

"What sort of favour?" His voice was shaky when he finally managed to look away, his gaze darting from side to side as though seeking an escape.

I spoke softly, aware that so much rested on his reaction to my request. "Nothing complicated. I just need you to convince Potter to come out here. I want to talk to him."

"Why?" His unfortunate Gryffindor loyalty hung in the air as an unspoken footnote to his question. His eyes returning to my face, his jaw clenched slightly in an act of childlike defiance. "What are you going to do to him?"

"Nothing," I replied smoothly. "I just want to talk to him."

"Why should I believe you?"

I shrugged, tilting my head slightly to one side as I regarded him. " _Do_ you believe me?"

Flustered by my directness, he shrugged his shoulders, the movement abrupt and harsh beneath the weight of my hand. "I don't know."

I began to grow weary of the drawn-out encounter, withdrawing my hand from Longbottom's shoulder in a pointed gesture of frustration. I had no intention of spending my entire evening pandering to his internal conflict. "Just get him, okay?"

A moment of stillness, followed by a curt nod. "Okay."

There was a new determination in his gaze, something akin to pride in the firmer set of his limbs. It intrigued me that he could be so easily manipulated, twisted and remoulded by the knowledge that he might actually have a part to play in the chain of events that lay before him. There was no challenge in persuading one so desperate to please. My disdain tasted bitter, but Longbottom was only the means, not the end itself. He didn’t matter. Not tonight. There were more important things at stake.

"Do it, then," I prompted him, my tone rough now that I had what I needed from him.

He nodded again. For a moment it looked as though he might speak, or perhaps even do something completely horrifying, like grasping my hand in friendship, or even covering my mouth with his own. Instead, he turned and returned in silence to the clamour of the Great Hall.

Sinking against the cool stone wall at my back, I closed my eyes in weary relief and waited for Potter’s arrival.

 

*

 

"What's so important, Neville?" Potter's voice rebounded from the walls of the corridor, rising above the overlapping murmur of voices that drifted out from between the doors to the Great Hall. "And couldn't it have waited until I'd finished my pudding? You know how much I..." His voice trailed off as he noticed me. "Oh."

"I'll just go now, if that's okay." Longbottom glanced from my face to that of his friend, desperately trying to judge the situation.

"Sure," I told him, waving him away with a flutter of one hand. My interest in Longbottom had faded entirely the moment that Potter had walked into the hall.

His disappointment was clearly evident in the downward turn of his mouth. Perhaps he had expected a thank you, or perhaps even something more, but I wasn’t about to provide either. He didn’t speak again, but there was a hint of admonishment in his eyes as he backed towards the double doors, finally turning and leaving Potter and me alone in the shadowy corridor.

"I should have guessed." Potter folded his arms in an unmistakeable expression of disdain. “No wonder Neville seemed torn between loyalty and terror.”

"He was very helpful." My mouth twisted into a smirk as my gaze trailed over Potter’s form.

"What do you want?" he snapped, ignoring my attempt at provocation. "I presume you have a reason for interrupting my evening."

"You're not fooling me with this elaborate charade, you know, Potter."

"Charade? I just want to get back to my dessert."

I closed the space between us, not yet willing to risk any contact, but positioning myself firmly within arm's reach. "Admit it. You've missed me."

"You're delusional." As harsh as his tone was, the statement didn't seem to carry as far as his eyes. He studiously avoided my gaze, his body stiffening in reaction to my nearness.

"Perhaps." Carefully, pointedly, I ran a casual hand through my hair before letting it drop back to my side. The movement drew a swift glance, soon followed by another. Leaning forward, I watched the nervous twitch of his lashes with a distant curiosity, letting seconds pass before forcing myself to continue. "Perhaps not."

The warm murmur of my breath against his cheek caused a pleasing shudder to run through his body, his eyes closing for a moment too long to be disguised as a mere blink. "I thought this was what you wanted," he muttered, his voice a little shaky. "I thought you wanted me to leave you alone."

A quick brush of his hand, his skin warm beneath my fingers. His limbs seemed torn between tension and submission and his jaw twitched almost indiscernibly. The green of his eyes shone with flecks of candle-flicker gold as they met and held my own, tentatively at first and then more resolutely.

"It was. I mean, I did," I corrected, momentarily flustered.

He looked confused; I felt much the same. It had been too easy to twist his antagonism back into this uneasy closeness, too easy to curb his words of scorn with a few moments of seclusion and a handful of carefully chosen ploys. How easy, then, would it be for him to do the same to me? How easy to turn strength into weakness, dominance into submission? I clenched a fist around the reassuring solidity of my sleeve, crushing the fabric into a wrinkled ball and imagining that it was Potter crumpling beneath my power.

He would admit I meant something to him, even if it took me all night.

"What do you want now?" he asked. His tone was even, non-committal, but I didn’t trust it.

"I want to know what happened." Breaking eye contact, I turned, trying to extract a confession through a show of indifference. "One minute you were kissing me, the next minute you were back to acting like I was the worst person in the world."

"You were the one who pulled away," he accused, his voice tight. "You made it very clear to me that you didn't want me around."

"So a fit of pique, then. Just as I had imagined." I forced a laugh from my throat, reaching out to wrap my fingers around the rough edge of a doorpost. "You're too predictable, Potter."

"Me? What about you?" With a rough hand he grabbed my shoulder, spinning me back around to face him. "You hate me, yet you want me to adore you. You spend months telling me to go away, but as soon as I do as you asked, you tell me I’m inconsistent."

"What's wrong with that?"

He shook his head, his eyes shining with a mixture of amusement and irritation. "You really don't exist on the same level as the rest of us, do you?" He sighed, a brief huff of breath, before reaching out a hand to lightly touch one messy lock of my hair. "Was this for my benefit?"

I nodded.

"I like it."

I couldn't prevent the smile that claimed my lips. "So you do still think I'm hot!"

"I didn't say that." Rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses, Potter looked suddenly weary. "This is all about your ego, isn't it?" He shook his head, as though amused by his own foolishness. "Of course it is. I'm not just a trophy to be displayed in the Slytherin common room, you know."

"I'm the trophy, Potter," I corrected him. "You're just the skeleton in my closet."

He recoiled visibly at my words, his brows twisting into a frown. "Why did you bring me out here, Draco? What am I supposed to say?"

"Tell me you want me. Admit that I'm a fantastic kisser."

His laugh echoed along the corridor, bouncing off the walls and repeating the affront. "Why should I? Do you plan to say the same to me?"

I stared at him in utter horror. "What?"

"I thought not."

The thrill of the chase was paling somewhat now that I was faced with the reality of an ever-stubborn Potter. I couldn't understand why he wouldn't just admit to the truth I could see in his eyes. Was it so hard to admit that you had feelings for someone, enemy or not?

Tiring of the circling conversation, I reverted to a more comfortable role, reaching out to twist my fingers around a fold of Potter's robes, widening my eyes as I looked up at him from beneath my fringe. Although his breathing grew a little more irregular, his gaze remained impressively firm. Tightening my grasp, I pulled him towards me, opening my mouth as though to speak but then letting it drift shut without a word. He swallowed. I tried not to blink.

A minute passed. Two.

"Why would I want you?" The words poured from his mouth in a sudden, nervous flow, tearing the silence with their harsh syllables. "You're arrogant, self-centred and mean, and you have no respect for my friends. You're spoilt, you're a bully and I'm not even going to start on your attitude towards Muggles. You—"

Sick of his tirade, I silenced him in the only way that seemed possible. I kissed him.

His lips were surprisingly soft beneath my own, startled into immobility by my unexpected assault. It seemed as though kissing a boy should feel alien to me, but there was nothing peculiar in the gentle pressure of smooth, warm flesh as I drew him closer with a tentative touch to the back of his head. My fingers tangled within his hair, my thumb instinctively stroking a narrow path backwards and forwards as I slipped my other arm around his waist. His back was hard and undeniably masculine, hinting at Quidditch and too little food to make up for his latest growth spurt. Far from strange, his body felt oddly natural within my embrace.

It took him several seconds to overcome the shock of the contact, his breath eventually heating my cheek again to a rhythmic, airy beat. As one arm circled my torso, the other reached upwards, disbelieving fingers tracing a tender path across my jaw. His lips parted, in invitation or amazement, and I found myself deepening the kiss automatically, as though I no longer had any control over my own actions. The grazing touch of his fingers was maddening as he leaned further in towards me, teasing me with their feather-light strokes.

Lips became tongues, a tentative glance and tangle that fractured my breath and weakened my knees. He smelled like soap and aftershave, and tasted like the chocolate pudding he had been so loath to leave behind. The press of his body against mine was a revelation I did not wish to acknowledge, so instead I learnt the curves of his back and the line of each rib.

The kisses slowed, drifting gradually into comfortable nothingness as we pulled apart. His hand remained on my waist, mine caught within his hair, as I claimed the stunned gaze of his heavy-lidded eyes.

"Oh." The word was a whisper, slipping almost silently from his lips.

"Oh," I confirmed, my own mind foggy with confusion as my mouth throbbed with the memory of his touch.

A slight smile shaped his features. "Oh indeed."

"Is that all you can say?" I teased.

"Well, the rest doesn't so much consist of words as random syllables." As he spoke, his fingers drew tiny circles on my flesh, their warmth apparent even through the fabric of my robes.

Forcing myself to concentrate on the task at hand, rather than his wilful attempts at distraction, I persisted. "What about the small matter of my kissing abilities?"

His laugh should have irritated me, but instead I felt myself smiling in response. "You never give up, do you? Okay then: Draco, you are not a hopeless kisser. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

My smile grew. "I suppose it will have to do."

This was no fleeting victory. Potter's eyes told me that there would be no change of attitude this time, that we had reached a point where such pretence on his behalf would be futile. A feeling of pure triumph flooded my body as my heart pounded an erratic rhythm within my chest. I had won.

Now was the moment to crush him entirely. I prepared sentences in my mind, cleverly arranged words that would twist his smile into shocked disbelief. With a simple arrangement of letters, I could remove him from my life forever, humiliating and destroying him and exacting the perfect revenge for all the years I had been forced to stand within his shadow.

My internal mantra of hatred was cracked and counterfeit beneath his gaze. His smile did not falter; my words did not come. I had waited so long for this moment, only to have my victory stolen from me by a meaningless kiss and the happy curve of Potter’s smile.

My mouth opened to claim my ascendancy, but instead it reclaimed his lips, my body acting, unbidden, even as my mind remained unsure. This time, his taste was familiar, his mouth known and understood. My fingers clenched within his hair, their pressure too firm to be called gentle, in an overt gesture of ownership. He, in turn, looped possessive fingers around my collar, drawing me closer into his body and the kiss.

My heart racing, I pushed him backwards into the corridor wall, aware that the rough stone might cut into his back but uninterested in such details. The impact only seemed to increase his fervency as his hand dropped to claim my lower back, pulling our groins into brief contact and sending horrifying sparks of pleasure throughout my body. Despite myself, I moaned into his kiss, taking little comfort in his own gasp of surprise. The cool edge of his glasses pressed into my forehead, and my breath caught at the reminder of who he was.

A cool breeze drifted, barely noticed, across the back of my neck, where it was quickly replaced by Potter’s fingers. But then came a cough, from neither him nor me. We both froze into icy stillness. The kiss ended.

I turned slowly, as though tangled in the thickness of the air. The final swing of the double doors was just drifting into stillness, the shadows on the walls readjusting to the normal amount of light. As I recognised the figure standing awestruck before me, relief pulsed through my veins like the most powerful of potions.

"Oh, it's only you."

Longbottom nodded, perhaps too surprised to speak. Placing a light hand on my shoulder, Potter moved to stand beside me. I wasn't sure if I was hearing the pounding of his heart or my own.

"You're not going to tell anybody about this, are you, Neville?" Potter's voice was calm, placating. I wouldn’t allow myself to look at him yet, but I could picture the expression on his face nonetheless, that irritating smile that fooled students and teachers alike.

"If you do, I'll kill you," I chipped in for good measure.

He blinked.

"Come on, Neville. I thought we were friends." Potter's hand tightened on my shoulder, as if to warn me not to contribute anything further to our cause. "You don't want me to be the laughing stock of Gryffindor, do you?"

I spun to face him, knocking his hand to one side. "What do you mean, 'laughing stock'? I'm the one with something to be embarrassed about!"

"What? Do you honestly think I want my friends to know that I've stooped so low that I’ve started kissing you in the halls?"

"The only person doing any 'stooping' around here is me," I threw back, glaring at him.

He returned my stare, his brows lowered sullenly and lips pulled into a tight line. I tried not to notice how much his anger suited him, nor the way his cheeks had coloured from the combination of his annoyance and my kiss.

"I… I won't say anything," Longbottom offered, reminding me of his presence.

"Thank you." Turning, Potter was all innocence and amiability again. "It means a lot to me."

"I don't see why," I muttered as Longbottom backed towards the door.

"That's because you're a prat," Potter snapped in response.

"Takes one to know one."

"Oh, that's very mature, Draco."

I wasn't sure whether to kiss him again or to leave before I found myself further compromised by the night's events. After much deliberation, I chose the latter, answering his insult with a simple roll of the eyes before heading towards the doors to the Great Hall. As I placed my hand on one door handle, however, he spoke my name, his voice soft and almost conciliatory.

I turned, one eyebrow raised in a perfect arc of indifference. "What now?"

For the first time that evening, he seemed to be having trouble finding the words he needed, his voice hesitant and weak. "I realise we're enemies," he began, "but that doesn't mean we can't do this again, does it?"

I wanted to be disdainful and to deny him all further contact, but instead I found myself calmly saying, "I guess not," as I twisted the door handle and followed Longbottom into the Great Hall. Once the door had swung closed behind me, I raised a tentative hand to my lips, before shaking my head and trying to erase the memory of Potter's touch from my mind.

 

*

 

Crabbe and Goyle smiled in greeting as I slid back into my place between them, pleased to find my dessert untouched and still slightly warm.

"Where've you been?" Goyle asked, eyeing my pudding hungrily.

"I had some business with Potter to attend to."

"Ah." Crabbe grinned knowingly. "Did you do it? Did you make him fall in love with you?"

I licked a splash of chocolate sauce from my spoon. It tasted of Potter and clandestine kisses. "I think he already was."


	9. The Will of the Squib

I have never been a particularly self-aware person. The defining moments in life tend to pass me by without recognition, only to be acknowledged as such from several years' distance. At the time, I am interested only in the immediacy of the situation and in securing the most beneficial outcome for myself. I rarely stop to consider the consequences of my actions, although I am perfectly capable of contriving and executing a premeditated strike if I ever care to do so.

There seems to be little benefit in spending one's life thinking only of the future. I had seen too many intelligent and talented people being cowed by possibilities over my 17 years to ever follow along a similar path. My childhood was filled with whispers about the Dark Lord, the fearful speculation only increasing with his reappearance in my first year at Hogwarts. My housemates spent more time worrying about assignments and marks than they spent actually studying, while my parents spoke continually of what I might do following the completion of my seventh year, rather than enquiring about my current studies.

I was never so inclined. As a child, my successes were ensured by the manipulative efforts of my doting parents. As a teenager, I learnt to use my own talents and intelligence, calling only for the help of my father when it was truly necessary to do so. I had no fears for the future, being confident that I would come out on top of any situation that life placed in my path. There seemed little point in identifying key moments in a lifetime that was sure to be free of anonymity and hardship.

But kissing Harry Potter was the sort of defining moment that even _I_ could not ignore. The kiss itself was not particularly life-altering, but it formed the beginning of a new era of my existence. At the time, I could not comprehend the full implications of my actions. All that I knew was that my life would never be the same as long as I could remember the sensation of Potter's lips against my own.

 

*

 

"I want to talk to you, Malfoy."

Sighing, I placed my quill to one side of my scroll and leisurely blotted the ink before turning to face the source of the interruption. "What do you want, Longbottom? In case you didn't notice, I'm rather busy here."

"I won't be long." He shifted his weight nervously from one foot to the other. "Can we go somewhere more private?"

I glanced around at the nearly abandoned library. At nine o'clock on a Friday night, most Hogwarts students were more interested in socialising in their respective common rooms than getting a head start on the weekend's homework. Apart from a couple of first years sitting at a small table on the opposite side of the room, Longbottom and I were alone in the musty area.

"How much more private can you get?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

He frowned, his jaw tightening beneath its coating of puppy fat. "It's for your benefit, not mine," he answered, his voice quiet and unusually firm. "I want to talk to you about Harry."

Oh yes?" I willed my features to remain impassive and my tone to stay even as I turned back to my homework, one hand claiming the previously discarded quill and twisting it slowly back and forth between the pads of my fingertips. "What makes you think I'd be so concerned about privacy?"

"Because I _saw_ you."

Even without looking at him, I could picture the self-satisfied look on Longbottom's face. It had been present since the night of the Halloween Feast, emerging in flickers and flashes whenever our paths crossed in class or in the Hogwarts halls. It was not a change that would have been noticed by everybody. The alterations to his expression and posture were minor, clouded for most by their previous knowledge of the boy. If it occurred to anyone that Neville Longbottom appeared to have gained a little nerve, then the thought would quickly have been pushed from their minds, replaced by a wry smile of bemusement. Of course, _I_ was not just anyone.

Pushing my chair backwards, I dropped the quill onto the table’s surface with a soft clatter and stood, turning to face him. "Okay then," I nodded. "Where were you planning to take me?"

Awarded his brief victory, Neville's temporary burst of confidence quickly faded. "I thought... maybe a classroom," he replied hesitantly. "We could close the door, and there's no way that anyone would ever think of looking in there at this time of night. Well, I guess Snape might do that sort of thing, but as long as we don't choose the Potions classroom, we—"

I jumped in before he could prattle for hours. "A classroom it is, then." Flicking my robes backwards so that they swung out behind me, I led him out of the library and into the nearest classroom.

As he closed the door behind him, I regarded Longbottom curiously, waiting for some indication of why he had requested the meeting. Now that we were alone, I was already beginning to tire of his attention, the nerves beneath the surface of my skin seeming to pulse with the urge to flee from such undesirable companionship. "Well?"

Caged by his own actions, Longbottom began to pace—not the fluid, feline strides that would often be expected of the action, but rather a halting, jerky movement. I followed him with my gaze, unwilling to press him further for fear of appearing interested in his upcoming revelation. At frequent intervals, he paused to run a flustered hand through the bushy mess of his hair, his mouth thinning and then opening as though to speak, before drifting closed again without any utterance.

Finally, the nervous motion stilled and Longbottom turned to face me, his face held in a fragile mask of composure. "I'm going to tell everyone what I saw," he announced, his voice wavering slightly but remaining remarkably clear. "I'm going to tell them I saw you kissing Harry."

Despite myself, I could feel my heartbeat become erratic for a few seconds before returning to its normal, lazy rhythm. I had not expected such a threat when I had allowed Longbottom to draw me into this badly formed plan. Perhaps I had subconsciously predicted whispered confidences of his latest unrequited love, followed by shy requests for my expert advice. Maybe I had even contemplated a humble request for my help in obtaining a halfway decent mark in Potions. But certainly not this. Warning or declaration, it was not within the scope of what I would previously have considered Longbottom behaviour.

I allowed a disdainful pause before speaking, refusing to show any emotion.  "And what do you plan to accomplish through _that_ , Longbottom?"

"I know what it'd do to you." Sliding a chair out from beneath the nearest desk, he sank down onto it, crossing and uncrossing his legs while one hand reached out to rest tapping fingers on the smooth wooden top of the desk. His eyes refused to meet my own. "I know what it would mean. Your friends would disown you. You'd be the most hated boy in Slytherin."

My laugh was genuine. "You underestimate me. Just as you underestimate my friends."

"I know what they're like."

"Do you?" I gracefully raised myself to a seat on top of the desk immediately to my rear, maintaining my height advantage. "Better than I do, I suppose."

"I know what they're like," he repeated stubbornly. "And they won't like it."

"I dare say they won't." Smirking, I leaned forward to slightly close the distance between us. "But what makes you think I care?"

"You care." He finally managed to meet my gaze, his insipid blue eyes flickering slightly with the strain. "You care."

I didn't feel the need to respond to such an arrogant assumption. "Have you considered Potter's reaction to such an announcement? You're terribly interested in _my_ friends. Why don't you think about your own?"

"I've thought about it. A lot."

"What happened to that much lauded Gryffindor loyalty?"

"Not everything in this place is about Harry."

I laughed cynically. "A man after my own mind."

It seemed I had touched the proverbial nerve. His eyes widened with emotion, his mouth twisting harshly around his words. "You don't know what it's like. We're _required_ to worship him. It's as though it's just another class. Potions, Care of Magical Creatures and Harry Adoration. Most of the time, it's like the rest of us don't even exist."

"So this is a revolution? A Gryffindor coupe d’état?" I shook my head. "I don't believe it."

"I _will_ tell everyone." It seemed that my own contributions to the conversation were completely unnecessary. Longbottom had come prepared and was unwilling to stray from his planned course.

"I think we've established that." Sighing, I gently kicked my legs forward before letting them swing backwards again, slipping into a smooth rhythm of back-and-forth that rapidly drew his gaze.

Silence. Kick and sweep. Kick and sweep. And then:

"Unless you give me a reason _not_ to tell everyone."

My brows flickered upwards, surprised and even a little respectful. "Blackmail, Longbottom? We _have_ been underestimating you."

"Don't patronise me." His words would have been more impressive without the whiny edge to their tone.

I sucked my bottom lip into my mouth, lightly biting it to prevent the smile that threatened to overwhelm me and releasing it again only when I could be sure I had my expression under control. "Shall we discuss it like businessmen, then? Go ahead. Name your terms."

My directness flustered him; perhaps he had imagined my submission, a cowed opponent pleading for any offered escape. "Uh..."

"You can't possibly be asking for money. Your grandmother is wealthy; everyone knows that. From Weasley, perhaps, I might expect such mercenary tendencies. But not from you." At some point, my feet had stilled, but now I resumed the even punctuation of their movement. "Which brings us to the question: what moves you? Popularity, perhaps. Maybe even some kind of emancipation. I’ve always thought you had a lot in common with house-elves." Kick and sweep. "Well?"

He rose from his chair and moved towards me, tension circling his limbs. Standing, he was only fractionally taller than me, the high, aged desk providing a considerable boost to my seated form. It became obvious that this had been planned too, that we were working from a script from which Longbottom refused to deviate. I could picture the notes within his mind. (Forward. Pause. Look immovable. Deliver line.) He may have been planning this moment from the very instant that he had caught Potter and myself mid-kiss. It wouldn't have surprised me.

"And you think you can give me those things?" His laugh was nervous.

"I didn't say that."

"No."

It struck me that, when I pictured Longbottom, I pictured him with some form of facial tic, some physical deformity that spoke to his emotional weakness. In my mind, he stuttered his sentences, drawing words out to the length of paragraphs. Before me now, he showed no sign of those faults. But I knew they were there, beneath the pudgy pallor of his skin. He did not frighten me for a moment. A Malfoy would never fear such an unworthy foe.

I leaned forward, closing the distance between us a little more, prompting and provoking him. "And?"

"And I only want one thing." His eyelids drifted downwards, wavering there for a second as though it was a battle for him to raise them again. I imagined I could see his heartbeat in his face. His Adam's apple danced. "I won't tell anyone about you kissing Harry... if you'll kiss _me_ too."

The laughter rolled from my throat before I could even contemplate holding it inside me. "You? And me?"

His features shrank and hardened. "Yes."

"I'm not gay," I spluttered around the fading pressure of my laughter. "And, even if I _were_ , I'd never prostitute my affections for the sake of amateur blackmail."

"You kissed Harry."

"I had a theory to prove."

"I saw it," he persisted. "It was more than that."

"What can I say?" I shrugged. "I'm an admirable actor."

"An admirable _liar_ , more like."

"Believe what you will. It doesn't change my response."

He shook his head. "No. Don't say it yet. Think about it. Think about what it'll mean if I tell the school what I saw."

I rolled my eyes. "It's not exactly a complicated choice."

I liked to believe that there was a new dullness in his eyes, the shadow of yet another rejection to be added to those that had been accumulated over the years of his existence. There may have been a slump to his shoulders that hadn't been there earlier, or it may merely have been their usual, genetic slope. The curve of his mouth was not merely my imagination, however, and I felt buoyed by the knowledge that it was I who had caused it. Neville Longbottom may have written the script for our encounter, but it was Draco Malfoy who directed the moves.

And, as he left the classroom without another word, I concentrated on that small victory and pushed the full implications of our conversation from my mind.

 

*

 

Potter's response came only minutes after I owled him in order to arrange a meeting. It was amusing to imagine his besotted delight at the contact, my mind presenting me with various scenarios, all involving a flustered and pleasingly ruffled Potter coming remarkably close to fainting at the sight of Persephone, my owl. On a logical level, I realised that the rapid return was more likely due to curiosity at my original, cryptic message, but I felt no need to embrace such dull realism.

I had not bothered to detail my reasons for asking Potter to meet me in the small courtyard that lay near to the Ravenclaw area of the school. Believing that a simple, _I need to speak to you—urgently. Meet me in the Ravenclaw courtyard_ , would suffice, I instead concentrated my efforts on sneaking outside without drawing the attention of any patrolling professors. Even with no more immediate threat of unsuspecting students being whisked away into the night by the Dark Lord or his minions, McGonagall remained fiercely strict when it came to straying outside after the time came for us to be confined to our dormitories.

Over the years, I had become quite adept at moving in the shadows. At times, I had trouble sleeping, and could only calm my restlessness through a furtive tour of the walkways, the adrenalin that pulsed through my body at the possibility of being discovered eventually leaving me sleepy and weary-limbed. Never during my night wanderings had I been caught. I was too careful for that.

My confidence buoyed through such experiences, I made my way swiftly towards the courtyard, keeping my footsteps quiet and listening carefully for any sign of Mrs Norris. It was on reaching the cobblestone area that Persephone found me, arriving with a loud screech that had me immediately looking around to make sure that no one was coming to investigate the clamour. When I was convinced that the noise had not disturbed anyone, I took my reply from her, trying to convey my displeasure through a stern look. She ruffled her feathers obstinately at me before taking to the air, circling the courtyard a couple of times before coming to roost on a large oak branch that stretched above my head.

I unfolded the message with eager fingers, telling myself that my enthusiasm was entirely due to the frostiness of the air and nothing at all to do with the possibility that I might soon be spending time alone with Potter. If my note had been brief, then his was shorter still. As I read the words I frowned.

_Behind you!_

My brows furrowed, I turned slowly and stared into the shadows, the area grey in the dim light of the half moon. Seeing nothing of note, I was about to launch into a stream of abuse, all of it aimed at Potter, when the air in front of me shimmered slightly and a familiar head emerged. Potter.

Laughing, he cast his invisibility cloak to one side and took a seat on the bench that lay, angled, beneath the oak tree. "You should see your face, Draco."

"Will you ever tire of that blasted toy?"

"Never."

He patted the space beside him, gesturing for me to sit. Like a well-trained puppy, I did his bidding. And hated him for it. His laugh became a broad smile and I tried not to look at his eyes or contemplate the way his teeth shone white in the thick night air. I fancied that he must be similarly affected, certain that his reluctance to meet my gaze stemmed solely from deep and painful desire.

When I did not immediately offer a reason for requesting his company, Potter spoke, his grin fading around the words. "What is it that you so urgently need to tell me?"

I nodded, pleased at his bluntness. After all, I had called him here for a specific reason, not merely to spend a few moments in his company. It was bad enough that I had to spend _any_ time in the presence of my sworn enemy; to be forced to engage in several minutes of small talk would have been agony. And, worse, I had a dreadful feeling that the longer I sat beside him, the harder it would be to ignore the remembered pressure of his lips against my own.

"Longbottom believes he's going to blackmail me." I watched in amusement as Potter's expression of curiosity morphed into one of disbelief. "He thinks that I should be so worried about the little... _incident_ ... that he was witness to that I'd be willing to do _anything_ to make sure that he’ll keep it to himself."

"By 'incident', I take it you mean what happened on Halloween." Potter seemed as reluctant as I was to be specific, as though naming our actions would make them too real.

"Exactly." I nodded as though to confirm my response.

He shook his head. "Neville?" he asked slowly, as if he were waiting for me to burst into raucous laughter and admit my joke. "I don't believe it."

"I have to admit, I was rather surprised myself. Who would have thought that there was such a lust for rebellion hidden beneath those rolls of puppy fat?" I commented lightly, never one to let a chance to insult one of Potter's friends pass me by.

"But what could he possibly want from you?"

I smirked. "Me."

Confusion suited Potter. His eyes widened beneath the lenses of his glasses, the irises a muted grey in the distorting half-light, their usual green hue fading in the silvery glow of the moon. A few strands of dark fringe fell forwards, brushing against the bridge of his nose as he stared appraisingly at me, undoubtedly searching for some sign of humour in my own features. As I watched him, his lower lip twisted slightly before being grasped by his teeth and drawn momentarily into his mouth.

"You?" His frown deepened. "But what do you mean?"

I shrugged. "Apparently he's going to tell everyone what happened if I don't agree to kiss him."

"What?" Potter squawked. "Why the hell would he want you to do that?"

I couldn't help but feel a little affronted. "Why _wouldn't_ he, don't you mean? The poor boy has probably been in love with me since the moment he met me."

"Draco, in your mind, the entire student population of Hogwarts is in love with you. And half the teachers as well," he added as an afterthought.

"Can you think of any other explanation?" I threw back, annoyed.

A long pause. "No," he admitted finally. "But I still find it rather hard to believe. I mean, Neville's my friend. Surely he knows that it's going to hurt me too if he lets it slip that he saw us... well... you know."

"He knows." I found it impossible to keep the smile from my face as I searched for Potter's reaction. "He's not bothered."

"What?"

"Let's just say that he's unimpressed by your celebrity."

Potter looked like I'd just told him that Dumbledore had been in league with the Dark Lord. "But he's my _friend_ ," he repeated.

"Believe what you will." I shrugged. "But I'd watch my back around him if I were you."

"But it's _Neville_!"

Potter seemed in danger of slipping into a loop of stunned repetition, so I reached out to grasp his hands tightly in my own. "It's of no concern to me whether or not you believe me," I said coolly, punctuating my words with a crushing squeeze. "I simply thought that you might be interested in the day's events."

He stared down at our linked hands, an unreadable expression flickering across his face. "I believe you," he said finally, before offering me a small smile.

The gesture threw me. I suddenly became acutely aware of the warmth of his hands wrapped around my own and the nearness of our bodies. Flustered, I tore my hands from his grasp and stood, distancing myself from him. "Obviously, I won't be succumbing to his demands," I said, once I could trust my voice to remain steady.

"Are you sure?"

"Of _course_ I'm sure!" I laughed. "The other option is kissing Neville Longbottom!"

His laugh wasn't quite as easy as my own. "Well, it's not something I've ever fantasised about myself."

"Even if he _were_ the subject of my greatest desires, I still wouldn't do it. It's the principle of the matter."

Potter's smile became a little more forced with every second that passed. "But surely you need to protect your own interests. What good is a moral victory if the whole school knows about what happened between us?"

I raised an eyebrow at the simplicity of his argument. "How could I face life knowing that I had surrendered to Longbottom's every whim and desire?" I threw back.

"What about me?" By this point there was not even the pretence of a smile. "This affects me too, Draco."

"What _about_ you?" I shrugged. "You're welcome to kiss Longbottom if you so desire. I don't intend to stop you."

"That's not what I meant," he snapped.

"No?"

"No! I'll be the laughing stock of Hogwarts if Neville tells anyone what he saw." Obviously annoyed, Potter stood, moving so that his face was only inches from my own.

If he were attempting to hurt me, I was determined that he wouldn’t achieve his goal. "I'm not likely to emerge unharmed myself," I threw back. "Do you think I want Father to find out that I kissed the likes of you?"

"Oh, spare me the pitiful moaning," he snapped. "You know as well as I do that he'd be more than happy to overlook your behaviour if you explained that you were only kissing me to prove a point."

"Maybe."

"Definitely."

Glaring, I bent to pick up one of the smaller pebbles at my feet, throwing it so that it clattered dully against the stone of the school building. "That's not the point. I'm not letting Longbottom win. I'd rather die. Hell, I'd rather befriend a Muggle than be Longbottom's bitch."

Potter gaped at me, his angry frown quickly dissolving into an expression of bemused surprise. "Neville's… bitch?" he repeated, the sharp, ascending change in tone at the second word betraying the laughter rising within him.

"Do you have a better way to describe it?" Being laughed at by Potter was not the most effective way of improving my humour.

"No. I like your way." Somewhere between his chest and his mouth, the laugh became a warm smile. Stepping forward, he removed the distance I had placed between us, placing his hands gently on my shoulders. "But I guess you know that by now," he concluded.

I had time to blink once before he kissed me. His touch was familiar and I found myself leaning into his mouth and hands despite the screams of self-loathing that were beginning to fill my mind. He tasted of salt and butter, of freshly made popcorn eaten in front of a common room fireplace. His lips seemed unusually warm in the cool of the autumn night air.

As we kissed, I traced the line of his jaw with my fingertips. It was different to my own; more flesh covered the bone and the angle of its curve was less marked. His cheeks were rough with stubble, a testament to the late hour, and the lobes of his ears were surprisingly soft beneath my touch. The sweep of his neck fascinated me. I replaced fingers with lips and tongue and felt the way that Potter arched his head away, his breath catching as I nipped once at the join of neck and shoulder before returning my attention to his lips.

The slow, lazy movement of mouth on mouth was nothing like the angry passion that I had felt during the Halloween Feast. Occasionally, our lips would still almost entirely, Potter’s breath warm and uneven against my cheek, his fingers catching and curling within my hair. Once, it sounded almost as though he had whispered my name, but I ignored the possibility, concentrating instead on the way Potter's shoulder blades twitched in a smooth reflection of the movements of his hands.

I felt slightly dizzy, obviously a side effect of standing, intertwined with another body, for such an extended period. Twice, Potter swayed dangerously, and I was forced to tighten my arms around him in order to prevent us both from falling. The second time, he laughed into the kiss, tickling my lips and encouraging my own amusement.

For my enemy, his body fit against mine surprisingly well. When Potter pulled away, the contrast left me feeling chilled and heavy and perhaps he could feel it too, as he immediately leaned back in again, wrapping a hand around the back of my neck as our heads fell slightly forward, his forehead resting warmly against my own.

"Do you _really_ want me to kiss Longbottom?" I asked finally, pulling away from his grasp and reclaiming my place on the bench.

"No," he admitted, his tone vehement, "but what other choice do we have?"

"I think I have a plan."

He smiled, sitting down beside me, his eyes and body turned towards me. "You _always_ have a plan."

I couldn't help but return the smile. "Admittedly, some are more successful than others."

"I'm glad."

The ensuing silence should have been uncomfortable, but wasn't. I occupied the time with a complicated routine of mentally beating and chastising myself for having somehow ended up in Potter's arms yet again. The arguments were less effective than on previous occasions, possibly due to the undeniably repetitive nature of my transgressions, and at times I was required to quickly stop my thoughts from straying to the closeness of my adversary and the fact that I would be able to kiss him yet again with a simple stretching of my neck.

Above us, Persephone signalled her displeasure at the silence and the chill of the evening with a loud flapping of wings and the resulting shower of displaced leaves. Standing, I gestured for her to leave her makeshift perch in favour of my arm, and she was quick to comply, ruffling her feathers in indignation when Potter was so bold as to attempt to stroke the top of her head.

"She's a little anti-social," I offered in explanation.

Potter laughed. "I wonder where she learned that," he teased, shaking out his invisibility cloak and brushing a stray leaf from his hair.

"I think it has something to do with the fact that Goyle has managed to sit on her at least a dozen times by now."

"Possibly." A pause. "Do try your hardest to work something out with Neville," he said finally. "I'd really prefer to keep our indiscretions private."

A new spark of anger began to kindle within me. "I intend to try," I snapped, "but I won't be doing so for your sake, Potter."

"I wasn't expecting that you would," he retorted. "The day you commit an unselfish act is the day that Hagrid starts wearing dresses."

"You say that as though it were a bad thing." I turned towards the path leading back in the direction of the Slytherin area of Hogwarts as Potter angrily pulled his invisibility cloak over his head.

"Prat," said a disembodied voice to the left of my head.

"Muggle-lover," I threw back, glaring.

"God, you’re frustrating." This time Potter's voice came from in front of me, a disconcerting moan of irritation.

"Not as frustrating as you are."

And then we were kissing again, my lips pressed roughly against their invisible counterparts. The contact was brief and angry, the lack of any visual stimulus colouring the moment with strangeness. I humoured him for a few seconds before pushing him to one side and heading towards the dungeons to fabricate the plan I had already claimed to have.

 

*

 

"You study too much, Draco." Mere seconds after I entered the Slytherin common room, Pansy attached herself to my arm, wrapping her slender fingers around the folds of my sleeve. "It's far too late for school work."

"I'm finished now." Nodding greetings to a couple of the boys on the Quidditch team, I placed my completed homework on the nearest table before taking a seat on one of the large couches that formed a semi-circle in front of the fireplace.

"Good." She sat down beside me, closer than was truly necessary. As she settled back into the cushions, her leg brushed against mine. "Oops, sorry," she grinned, her eyes contradicting the sentiment.

Producing a brief smile in response, I held her gaze for a moment before turning to Crabbe and Goyle, who were seated on the couch to our right. "So, have I missed anything of note?"

"Edwards accidentally turned Zabini's Arithmancy text into a canary," Crabbe said, the corners of his mouth twitching with amusement. "It took him about twenty minutes to catch the thing, and another twenty minutes to clean up all the shit."

"The poor bird was terrified," Pansy adds. "Then again, who would blame it for being a little alarmed with that great oaf thumping along behind it?"

"You should know, Pansy," Goyle teased.

"So I'm popular with the boys," she threw back. "Is that a crime?"

"Not that I know of, but I'm sure ol' McGonagall is working on it." Shrugging, Goyle reached into one pocket and pulled out a chewed and stubby pencil, stretching over Crabbe in order to claim the crumpled copy of The Daily Prophet that lay folded on the arm of their couch. "I'm surprised she hasn't managed to make hating Harry Potter a punishable offence by now."

"Just imagine," Pansy mused. "The entire population of Slytherin house would be permanently in detention."

"I doubt Snape would stand for it." Crabbe bent his head forward, watching in fascination as Goyle began to sketch loose, easy lines in the wide margin of the newspaper's front page. "I can just picture him, stalking up to McGonagall to ask her what the hell she thought she was doing."

The cushion behind my shoulders rocked slightly and I turned to find myself looking into the less than attractive face of Daphne Greengrass. Managing to contain an urge to leap away in disgust, I waved a hand in brief greeting before surreptitiously moving a little to one side. Pansy glared up at the newcomer, seemingly unimpressed by Daphne's arrival and the increased space between her body and my own.

"Speaking of Potter," Daphne began, her gaze flickering between Pansy and me, "Wasn't he meant to be head over heels in love with you by now?"

"Very funny, Greengrass," I replied coolly, staring into the golden flames of the open fire. "You must be confusing my life with your fantasies."

"You were the one who seemed so damn sure that you could make him fall in love with you," she replied pointedly.

I rolled my eyes at Pansy, who giggled delicately into one hand. "I'm not denying that. I do, however, remember telling you that I felt no need to prove my point."

"What's wrong, Daphne?" Pansy demanded, the singsong tone of her voice only partially covering a note of danger. "Are you jealous?"

"Of course not." Daphne glared down at us, her pointed chin pressing against the fabric of the couch and making her appear deformed by some hideous mistake of nature.

"It sounds like it." Pansy smiled at our housemate, the expression not reaching as far as her eyes, which remained clear and calculating. "Still harbouring your little crush on Potter, are you?"

As Daphne spluttered her denials, Goyle joined the assault. "And besides," he added loyally, "What makes you so sure that he _isn't_ in love with Draco?" I threw him a warning glare, but he continued on heedlessly. "Why, just the other day, Draco was saying that—"

I quickly cut him off. "I don't think Daphne needs to hear that," I said pointedly. "Go back to your drawing."

"I wasn't saying anything secret," Goyle protested. "I was just going to tell her what you told us. You know, about Potter being in—"

"In league with that troupe of Gryffindor cretins," I interjected, delivering a sharp kick to my friend's shin. Establishing that he was too busy rubbing the injured limb to continue his speech, I turned back to Daphne. "Nothing of note."

She eyed me suspiciously. "Oh."

Crabbe had been observing the exchange with wide eyes, turning from one speaker to the next as though he were watching a particularly hard-fought Quidditch match. "I don't get it," he said finally, his expression bemused.

"I'll fill you in later," I told him generously.

Stretching, Pansy spun in her place so that the lower half of her legs trailed over one arm of the couch we were sharing, leaning back until her head was resting in my lap. Smiling, I let my hands trail lazily through her hair, her weight warm and comfortable against my thighs. After my meetings with Longbottom and Potter, the feminine contact felt soothing.

"Don't tell me _this_ is starting up again," Daphne sighed. "We're only just getting over your last cataclysmic break up."

I opened my mouth to deliver the perfect cutting remark, but Pansy beat me to it. "Fuck off, Daphne."

Crabbe burst into raucous laughter that drew the glances of every other student in the room. Confused, Goyle looked up from his drawing, blinking and searching for the source of such humorous inspiration. When no obvious solution was forthcoming, he shrugged and returned to the page in front of him, the edges of the newspaper fluttering with each stroke of his pencil.

"You really need to make up your mind," Pansy continued, smiling sweetly. "Is Draco with Potter, or with me?"

"I wouldn't put it past any of you to be involved in some sort of sordid threesome," Daphne snapped in response.

"Ah, but that would involve me touching Harry Potter," Pansy continued calmly. "And we all know that I’m not the one around here who is desperate to do just that… "

With a loud squeak, Daphne clambered to her feet, pulling herself up by using the couch as a crutch for her bony frame. "Fuck you, Parkinson," she spat, and then turned and stalked gracelessly towards her dormitory.

"Sore spot," I drawled, smirking down at Pansy.

"Apparently so." She smiled back, before stretching her arms behind her head and closing her eyes, her expression fading into one of contentment. "I guess crushes can do that to a person."

"If you're too weak to combat it." Yawning, I turned to watch the fluid motion of Goyle's hand. "What're you drawing?"

"You," he grinned, completing another couple of strokes before putting his pencil to one side and turning the paper around so that I could see his efforts.

As always, it was a good likeness. Goyle could be quite an artist when he bothered to move beyond his usual subject matter of naked women in various near-impossible poses. He had very cleverly managed to capture Pansy's and my positions on the couch, a task which, even with my complete lack of drawing ability, I could tell must have been quite difficult.

In sketch form, Pansy and I looked good together. Then again, we always had done. When Pansy visited Malfoy Manor over the summer break between my sixth and seventh years at Hogwarts, my mother seemed unable to stop commenting on how perfect a couple we made. She was devastated when we broke up. Admittedly, my father was similarly unimpressed, although his own displeasure was a lot more concerned with the loss of a possible alliance with the (eminently wealthy) Parkinson family than with mere aesthetics. Although I had thought my mother foolish at the time, six months later I could begin to see the truth of her words. Pansy and I were well suited in a lot of ways, with our complementary looks only one small part of our similarity. It was a shame that I couldn’t feel what I had tried so hard to feel for her. Our lives would have been so much easier if I had been able to fall in love with her.

I nodded encouragingly at Goyle. "Great stuff," I said honestly. "You've captured Pansy's hair perfectly."

As Goyle went back to his sketching, Crabbe watching curiously over his shoulder, I brushed Pansy's fringe from her eyes and tried to convince myself that the heavy warmth of her head was the thing that caused my heartbeat to quicken, instead of the emerald fire of Harry Potter’s eyes.

 

*

 

Longbottom was late. Outside the window of the silent classroom I was sitting in, the sky changed colour, darkening into a rising grey. A few smudges of pale cloud decorated the horizon and I watched their slow movement across the sky in between frustrated glances towards the clock on the far wall. When I grew tired of the scenery, I began to pace, the rhythmic echo of my footsteps overwhelming the former quiet. Persephone returned to me without any message of acceptance or denial and settled down on the windowsill, occasionally raising her head from preening her wings in order to cast a disgruntled look in the direction of my feet.

Exactly thirteen minutes after he was due, Longbottom burst into the room in a flurry of robes and flustered looks. "Sorry," he muttered, dropping a stack of textbooks onto one of the desks. "I couldn't remember the password to our common room."

"The words of a true rebel," I commented dryly.

"Have you thought about what I said?"

It was as though Longbottom was able to wear his attempts at blackmail like a mask, unusually immovable for as long as he could rely on his pre-prepared script. He could move from a slumped and shaking schoolboy to stoicism personified within the space of a few words. It would have been impressive if it were anybody but him. As it was, I felt almost as though I were witnessing the beginning of a steep descent into insanity. It was a pity that I had to be so deeply involved in this—otherwise, it would have provided an amusing spectacle.

"I've thought about it."

"And?"

I moved over to the windowsill, smoothing the ruffled feathers of Persephone's throat with the back of one finger. "I just want to clarify something," I said slowly, pretending to be totally entranced with the movement of the clouds outside. "Why exactly was it that you wanted me to kiss you?" Spinning, I raised an eyebrow, looking at him from beneath half-lowered lids.

He stared back, his eyes wide and terrified. "P... pardon?" he stammered finally.

"Why do you want to kiss me?" I repeated slowly, continuing to stroke Persephone as I watched for Longbottom's reaction. "You must have a reason."

"A... reason?"

"Exactly." Slowly, I closed the gap between us, trying not to smirk too obviously. I stopped only inches from him, raising my hand to run one finger down the line of his sleeve. He gasped audibly at the touch. "So, why don't you tell me what that reason is?"

"I..."

I leaned in until he must surely have been able to feel the warmth of my breath against his lips. I could see that his gaze was fixed firmly on my own mouth, his jaw twitching slightly from the tension of the moment. Reaching out to take his hands into mine, I ran my tongue across my lower lip in a stereotypical gesture that I knew would not be lost on Longbottom. He flinched.

"You?" I prompted.

His mask crumpled and he slumped before me, his hands slipping from mine and falling to his side as his shoulders sagged in a gesture of utter defeat. "I love you," he whispered.

I bit my lip to suppress a laugh.

"I've loved you for years. When I saw you with Harry during the Halloween Feast I... I felt like throwing up." Now that he had begun to speak, it seemed as though Longbottom was unable to stop. "You're just... incredible. I'd love to be able to influence people the way that you do. I wish I could be around you all the time, every single moment of the day."

"Oh?" I kept my gaze low, a careful gesture of reservation. "But what about our houses? Wouldn't your Gryffindor friends disapprove?"

"Probably. But I don't care. They pretend to like me, but all they ever do is patronise me. They think they're so brave and righteous, but they're just human like everyone else. I hate them."

"Oh," I repeated, trying not to sound too interested, although I memorised his words as I watched him from beneath lowered eyelashes.

He grasped my hands again and my mind focused distantly on the puffy dampness of his palms, his pudgy fingers linking within mine. "Do you...?"

Seductively: "Do I what?"

"Do you love me too?"

And that was it. The situation was no longer within his control. Longbottom had opened his heart and revealed his greatest weakness and, in admitting that it was me, effectively sealed his own defeat. It seemed that the will of the Squib was not as solid as he may have tried to convey. I finally let myself smile.

"Let me think," I drawled. "After all, there's so much to love about you. Your looks, your charm, your magical and social abilities..." I crushed his hands within my own before releasing them and watching as they dropped heavily, his fingers clenching and straightening compulsively. "And then there’s the fact that you tried to blackmail me, betraying Potter in the process. Do I love you?" The laugh burst from my chest, no longer able to be controlled. "Fuck no.”

He fell against the desk to his rear, his legs crumpling beneath the weight of my words. He clutched at the thick wood as though it were the only thing preventing him from collapsing completely, his lower lip trembling alarmingly.

"You're pathetic, Longbottom."

I couldn't look at him any more; he made me feel physically ill. Turning, I walked over to Persephone, gesturing so that she fluttered to my shoulder, craning her head to nibble affectionately at my ear. "Come on, let's get out of here," I whispered to her. "We've much more important things to do with our time."

As I headed towards the door, I paused in front of Longbottom, smiling down at his defeated form. "I take it you'll not be telling anyone about what you saw the other night," I said mildly. "After all, I'm sure you wouldn't want _me_ to tell your Gryffindor friends what you've told me tonight. I can't imagine they'd be very impressed with your confessions of love... nor, for that matter, your criticisms of your own housemates." I patted him on the shoulder, the perfect farewell gesture of condescension. "Blackmail isn't really your _thing_ , is it, Longbottom?"

Smiling, I turned towards the door, anxious to return to the Slytherin common room so that I could owl Potter with the good news before my next class.

 

*

 

"What is it that you were so eager to tell me about?" Potter asked as he lowered himself down onto the ground beside me. "I had a hell of a time getting here. I think Hermione and Ron guessed that I was coming to meet you, because all of a sudden all they could talk about was some important _thing_ that we all needed to do. Of course, whenever I tried to ask them what this important thing _was_ , they'd quickly change the subject."

I smirked at him, one eyebrow raised. "You're gushing," I remarked, amused. "What's wrong? Am I making you nervous?"

He glared at me. "Of course not." His fingers plucked compulsively at the blades of grass that grew sparsely at his sides. "I'd just like to know what's going on, that's all. Your message wasn't exactly what I'd call enlightening."

"It wasn't meant to be."

Potter rolled his eyes. "Let me guess. That would have been too helpful."

"Actually," I corrected him, "I was more worried about the message being intercepted."

"Not that you're paranoid or anything," he laughed, shuffling backwards along the ground until his back rested against the trunk of the tree to my rear. I followed suit—not to be close to Potter, of course, but simply to aid my own comfort. "Trust me, Draco. No one here is at all interested in reading your silly, obscure notes."

" _You_ read it," I pointed out, grinning.

"Yes, but it was meant for me," he threw back. "It would have been rude for me _not_ to read it."

"Whatever you want to tell yourself, Potter," I teased. "I bet you keep every message I send you and then re-read them all when no one's looking."

"No, I don't," he said a little too quickly, suddenly unable to meet my eyes. "Well? What did you want to tell me?"

I contemplated tormenting him a little longer, but decided that it would only serve to prolong the time I had to spend in Potter's presence. "I spoke to Longbottom," I told him, then settled back against the tree trunk to await his response.

"You did?" I could tell that Potter was trying to keep his tone free of emotion, but there was something in his inflection that betrayed his interest. "What did he say?"

I casually reached up to play with the collar of my robes. "Apparently he loves me."

Potter's head snapped around and he regarded me with widely curious eyes. "What?"

"He loves me," I repeated mildly. "Well, at least he _thinks_ he does."

"He's a fool," Potter muttered, his jaw tightening.

"What's wrong?" I asked, leaning in to smile smugly at him from only inches away. "Jealous?"

"Of course not," he snapped, but he reached up to grasp the back of my head anyway, pulling me in for a harsh kiss.

"What was that?" I smirked, once he had released me. "Marking your territory now, are you?"

"Fuck off, Draco."

Crossing his arms, Potter turned so that all I could see of his face was a thin strip of pale, autumn skin. The line of his body was harsh and straight, tension emanating from the hunched curves of his shoulders and the smooth whiteness of his neck. As I watched him in amusement, I noticed the way that the tendons at the back of his neck rose from the soft skin at their base in parallel streaks of indignation. Frowning, I pushed aside the urge to trace their symmetry with my fingers, concentrating instead on the pleasant knowledge that I had the ability to provoke such a physical reaction.

"Is that the only reason you wanted to meet me, then?" he asked finally, his tone chipped and careful. "To flaunt your latest victim?"

"Only partially," I replied, ensuring that I kept my own voice bored and unemotional, unwilling to be influenced by Potter's anger. "I thought you might be interested in knowing that Longbottom's now rather unlikely to continue his blackmailing career."

"Oh. Of course." His anger seemed to dissolve as I spoke, leading me to wonder, yet again, whether his emotional stability was as solid as it could be. When he turned to face me, his features were composed, although his eyes betrayed his curiosity. "I doubt he's particularly proud of having fallen in love with you."

"No," I agreed, before realising the full implications of Potter's comment. "That is," I added hastily, "I'm sure it's not actually a case of Longbottom being ashamed of his attraction to me. After all, he's only human. I just don't think your Gryffindor cronies are likely to look kindly upon his preferences."

"I can't see why not," he replied sarcastically.

"It's not only the way he feels about me," I went on. "You should hear the things he says about the rest of you."

"I'm not sure I would want to." Sighing, he sank back against the tree trunk, his shoulder settling against my own. "It's strange. I really thought I knew him."

"What's to know?" I drawled. "Let's face it; he's an awful bore."

"So you don't think he'll say anything just to spite you?"

"What? And humiliate himself? I think not." I smiled triumphantly at him. "Face it, Potter. I'm brilliant."

"We'll see," he replied conservatively, but his hand reached out to curl cool fingers around my own, gently squeezing it before settling into a comfortable hold.

Confused, I looked down at our linked fingers, fascinated by the contrast of colours and form. His nails were short and bitten, easily distinguishable from the immaculate curves of my own nails. The tan of his knuckles attested to too much time spent upon his broomstick during the increasingly rare patches of autumn sun. Although his grip was firm and almost possessive, his hand was surprisingly soft, untainted by the calluses I would have expected.

"Did he really say he loved you?" Potter asked, after a few minutes of easy silence. "It's just that I never took him as someone willing to put himself on the line like that."

"Well..." I tried to suppress a grin. "I might have encouraged him a little..."

"You didn't!" Potter looked as though he was caught between disapproval and admiration. "That's horrible, Draco."

"Would you prefer it if he had told everyone what he saw?"

He frowned. "Well, no, but imagine how he feels right now."

I smiled. "Nice, isn't it."

"You're terrible." He returned the smile. "But thanks anyway."

"I wasn't doing it for you."

"Of course not." Potter pulled my hand into his lap, idly playing with my fingers. I contemplated pulling away, but his body warmth was quite pleasant in contrast to the rapidly cooling evening air. "What did he say?"

"Who? Longbottom?" I asked. Potter nodded and I thought back to the earlier confrontation. "He told me how brilliant I am and that he wished he could be with me all the time. Oh, and that seeing us kissing made him feel like throwing up," I added as an afterthought.

"I know the feeling," Potter teased, ducking slightly into hunched shoulders as I made as though to hit him.

"And then he asked me whether I loved him too... and I told him he was pathetic," I concluded.

Potter's laugh sounded almost like a cough, strangled by his attempts to contain it. "I'm sure that went down well," he remarked, once he was able to speak. "Poor Neville. Are you certain he's not likely to tell everyone about us, just to exact some kind of revenge?"

"Positive. Even Longbottom isn't so pathetic as to make a laughing stock of himself simply to prove a point." I nudged him lightly with my shoulder. "That's more Granger's style, right?"

"Ha ha," he replied, refusing to be baited. "I hope you're right about Neville. If he were to say anything..."

"He's not going to," I replied confidently. "Now, enough about the Squib. I refuse to spend a minute more of my time thinking, talking or worrying about what he may or may not do."

Potter smirked: a pretty good attempt. He'd obviously been watching carefully and perhaps even practicing in front of the dormitory mirror when none of his roommates were around. "Do you have anything else in mind?" he asked slowly, turning slightly and somehow tangling his leg around my own.

"No." I returned his smirk as his own features tightened a little. "Well... I do have to finish the last couple of paragraphs of that Potions homework we have to hand in during class tomorrow..."

"You really are an insufferable prat, Draco," he marvelled, shaking his head.

"It doesn't seem to bother Longbottom," I teased.

It seemed that talk of Longbottom brought out the possessive side of Potter's nature. "Well, Neville always _was_ a little odd," he threw back, and then practically pounced on me, his mouth brushing against my neck, my ear and my cheek before finally settling upon my lips.

"If I go badly in that Potions assignment, it's on _your_ head," I managed to warn him in between kisses.

He shrugged and wrapped his arms around my neck. "I'm willing to take that risk."

 

*

 

The noise of several different conversations overlapped and echoed within the Potions classroom, grating on my ears and causing my fingers to tap irritably against the surface of the desk.

"I wonder what's keeping Snape," Goyle commented from the seat to my left. "He's usually early."

"Perhaps he's embroiled in an illicit love affair," I commented dryly. "His latest tryst in the fourth floor broom cupboard might be running overtime."

"I don't want to think about Snape being involved in _anything_ to do with those particular body parts," Pansy drawled from my right. "As far as I'm concerned, he's completely asexual."

"Sounds good to me," I agreed, looking at my watch, before glancing over to where Potter and Weasley were sitting, their books and cauldrons piled messily on the desks in front of them.

As though he could feel my gaze, Potter looked up, his eyes meeting mine across the room. His lips stretched into a tentative smile and I frowned back at him, worried that someone might see. _Did you get your homework done?_ he mouthed, and I nodded reluctantly, wondering whether anyone would notice if I shouted “no thanks to you” across the room at him.

Looking up from his textbook, Weasley noticed and followed the direction of Potter's gaze, his eyes narrowing visibly when they met my own. His brows twitching downwards, he tugged roughly at the sleeve of Potter's robes, drawing his friend's attention away from me. Smiling in amusement, I shook my head and returned my gaze to the front of the room.

The chatter around me stilled a little as Goyle nudged me roughly. "Look," he said, expression bemused, pointing towards the other side of the room.

I followed the direction of his gesture and felt my features slacken and fall as I found myself looking at Neville Longbottom, who was standing in front of his desk, his hands clenching and twisting against his chest. Aghast, I turned back towards Potter, meeting his own worried gaze. Behind me, Longbottom began to speak.

"I think there are a few people in this room who assume that I care too much about my own dignity to risk saying anything that might not be to their liking," he began, his voice shaky but well-rehearsed. "They're fools. I long since learned to live without dignity."

There were a few titters of laughter, but they rang in my ears as though muffled by swirling and suffocating water. I couldn't look away from Potter, who stared back at me with what must have been a mirror image of my own expression of complete and utter horror.

"I just thought you might all be interested to know," Longbottom concluded, his defining moment of power almost complete, "that I saw Harry and Malfoy kissing at the Halloween Feast."

He sat. Potter's eyes closed. My chest twisted and constricted as the room exploded.

  



	10. The Chain of Assumption

Attention is seductive. As infants, we seek permanence from our parents' gaze, shaping our actions for the most favourable response. A smile earns us a broader one in return; an attempt at speech draws a flush of proud applause. There's nothing sophisticated in the routine, each movement guided by instinct and ego. Babies do not doubt their own importance, eliciting responses in keeping with such blind confidence. Untouched by social conditioning, they know to scream as soon as their audience looks away.

Children care little for the line between good and bad attention. Misbehaviour is as effective as good grades at school, a potent weapon to be employed when more simple efforts fail. It’s a lesson carried into adulthood. Teenage boys collect detentions in the pursuit of a girl's regard; men make lewd comments to cover up their fears. Girls wear their skirts a little shorter and a little tighter each time their interest's eyes stray across the room. If people look, then they see us, and if they see us, then we must exist.

I've never subscribed to endless theories of human nature. Similarities only stretch as far as we wish to take them. Some of us are born to draw the gaze of our peers, thriving in the intensity of their attention. I have never felt the need to perform before a crowd, costuming my actions to ensure its brief esteem. People watch me because I am a Malfoy, follow me for who I am. A smile entices an echo; a comment attracts mutters of dumb acquiescence.  It is simple. Intrinsic. Fame is not merely for heroes, but for antitheses as well.

Neville Longbottom grasped attention with unfamiliar hands when he announced to a classroom that Potter and I had kissed. For one shaky moment, he experienced the heat of a collective gaze. His words said, he became forgettable, pushed aside in favour of our reaction. My heartbeat magnified. Potter's knuckles blanched around the edges of his desk. The silence was viscous.

Attention can be stifling when you want to fade away.

 

*

 

As I left the Potions classroom, I could feel the tips of my ears reddening in silent response to the curious gazes of my classmates. My line of vision narrowed as I strode quickly through the Hogwarts corridors, shrugging off the timid hellos of the junior Slytherins that I passed. The heavy fabric of my robes flapped and twisted around my legs, tightening my jaw with annoyance but failing to slow my pace. Behind me, I could hear the clumsy footsteps of Crabbe and Goyle, but I didn't acknowledge their presence, simply lowering my head slightly so that a few strands of hair fell forward to shadow my eyes.

Finally, the entrance to the Slytherin dungeons came into view, the cool greys of the last stretch of wall seeming to gleam silver beneath the brilliance of my relief. A quick mutter of "wolfsbane" admitted me to our quarters and I gratefully sought out the relative privacy of my dormitory. Dropping my books to the floor beside my bed, I twisted my feet from my shoes before climbing on top of the covers. My knees raised beneath the points of my elbows, I was glaring furiously at the far wall with my chin in my hands by the time my friends entered the room.

"So is it true?" Goyle asked bluntly, taking no notice of my no-questions scowl.

"Is what true?" I saw no need to encourage his line of questioning, instead sliding one arm down to pull my knees in closer to my body, shouting at him to be quiet through gestures rather than words.

"Did you kiss him?" Crabbe joined the assault, stepping forward to peer inquisitively at me. "Did you kiss Potter?"

Tiredly, I let myself drop backwards onto the mattress, my head coming to rest neatly in the centre of my pillow. Above me, the ceiling bore the stains of late afternoon, tentative shadows collecting at the edges of the room. "Do you really want me to answer that?" I muttered petulantly. "After all, Neville Longbottom said I did it, so it _must_ be true."

"Longbottom's an idiot," Goyle remarked mildly, lowering himself down onto his own bed.

Crabbe joined him, filling my peripheral vision with the bulk of his form. "He's obviously got it in for you, though."

"He's annoyed because I refused to kiss him." Smiling coolly, I rolled over to face them, interested in witnessing their reaction to my revelation.

Crabbe's eyebrows formed a thick tangle in the centre of his forehead as he leaned forward, his mouth gaping unattractively. "He wanted you to kiss him?" he asked dubiously. "Why would he want you to do that?"

I rolled my eyes, unimpressed at his lack of loyalty. "Because I'm me," I answered. "Why wouldn't he want me to kiss him?"

"That's a bit gay, though," Goyle commented. "Neville's never seemed the shirt-lifting type." He paused to scratch his wrist, shrugging loosely before adding as an afterthought, "But then neither have you."

"I'm not gay," I snapped, already tiring of the conversation.

"So you didn't kiss Potter then," Goyle concluded. He nudged Crabbe roughly, his elbow digging easily into the flesh of Crabbe's side. "I guess that means you owe me a galleon."

My eyes widened involuntarily as I stared at my friends. "You _bet_ on whether I'd kissed Potter?" I asked incredulously. Shaking my head, I watched as slivers of guilt shaped their features. "So much for loyalty."

Irritated, I slid from my bed, the chill of the floor quickly penetrating the wool of my socks as I walked to the far corner of the room, busying myself with the inspection of one of Nott's quills in a poor show of indifference. I could hear the uneasy rustle of fabric behind me, and it was easy to picture the stiff lines of Crabbe and Goyle's bodies as they struggled to produce a favourable response.

My jaw tightened as I twirled the white feather between my fingertips, faint echoes of ebony ink colouring the pale smoothness of my skin. Flecks of grey marred the perfection of the quill, asymmetric slashes of faded colour that reminded me of the pelt of a horse my father had once owned. Abruptly, the motion ceased and my hand stilled. In the immediacy of my reactions, I had not thought of what my father's response would be on learning that I had kissed Potter.

He was sure to hear of my indiscretions, now that they had been made public knowledge. Father had contacts in every corner of Wizard society, and I knew that there would be at least one young Slytherin who would be more eager to impress father than son. Obviously, I would colour the situation with excuses and talk of power and betrayal, but there was the chance that my eyes would suggest something more.

I could feel his disapproval even now, imagined words winding caustically around my torso and biting into my flesh. "A Malfoy kissing the son of a Mudblood," he would mutter, his grey eyes clouding with the shame of his understanding. “So much for heirs.” My shoulder blades twitched, and I closed my eyes against the vision.

With my secret shattered, there was no longer any question of prolonging my impropriety. My clandestine meetings with Potter would have to cease. The damage could be limited as long as the kiss was believed to be a singular occurrence. One kiss could easily be rendered as a controlled exercise, the forced confession that I had intended the events of Halloween to be. Beyond that, my grasp weakened. It was important that I master this new situation as I would any other, moulding Longbottom's declaration into a consolidation—rather than a loss—of power.

"We're sorry," Goyle muttered finally, his voice intermingling with Crabbe's noises of accord. "It wasn't really a serious bet, anyway."

"That's good to hear." Sighing, I turned to face them, my restless fingers plucking idly at the mottled quill. "Because if it _had_ been serious, you would have lost."

Goyle's soft curse betrayed the duplicity of his words, his transparency twisting my lips into a smirk. He flashed a quick, annoyed glance at the victorious Crabbe, before turning back to watch me with undisguised curiosity. "So you did kiss him, then." He shook his head, his expression a mingling of bemusement and disbelief. "No wonder you were so sure that he was in love with you!"

"What can I say?" I raised my hands, smile stretching outwards. "Not even Harry Potter can resist the Malfoy charm."

Crabbe leaned forwards, his eyes wide. "Was it horrible?" he asked, shuddering slightly at the mere thought of such unpleasantness. "Did you throw up afterwards?"

"No." I smiled teasingly at him. "After all, it wasn't as though I kissed _you_."

"I should bloody well hope not!" Crabbe laughed, as though to reassure me that it wasn't a personal rebuff. "I would have punched you if you'd so much as tried."

"Potter thinks the two of you are together," I replied casually, my smile widening as I looked between their identically horrified expressions.

"Why the hell would he think that?" Goyle spluttered, pointedly moving a little further from Crabbe's side. "Doesn't he have anything better to do with his time than make up lies about Slytherins?"

"Apparently not." Shrugging, I let the quill drop to the floor at my feet, bored by its lack of variance.

"So why did you do it?" Crabbe asked, being careful not to glance in Goyle's direction. "Surely you could have proved that he was interested without actually having to _touch_ him."

I frowned. "I guess so."

"Oh well," Crabbe continued, oblivious to my discomfort, "at least it's not like you kissed him because you wanted to. I wondered for a moment when Longbottom told us about it."

"Why would I want to kiss Potter?" I arranged my face into a scowl. "He's my enemy, remember?"

"How could we forget?" Laughing, Goyle lumbered to his feet, his hands creasing deep ditches in his mattress as he used it to push his body upright. "You hating Potter is one of the few things that never change at Hogwarts. There will always be first years giggling in the hallways, Snape will always give out more homework than is humanly possible to complete... and you and Harry Potter will always be enemies."

"It's like a law of nature," Crabbe agreed.

"I'm glad to be so predictable." If my tone was somewhat snappish, it was only to hide the glare of my relief. I diluted my words with a smile before carefully crushing the point of Nott's quill beneath my heel, ignoring the scratch of its splintered remains as they pressed sharply into my flesh.

My friends seemed content with my fragile explanations, slipping into unrelated conversation now that the subject of my indiscretions had been addressed. Uncomfortable with any interactions with each other that might be construed as more than idle friendship, they instead talked through and around me, their chatter flooding warmly over my evasions.

As they spoke, the words became bloated and unfamiliar. Impassive, I closed my eyes against the echoes of my denial.

 

*

 

"Did you hear about Harry and Malfoy?"

The whispers followed me as I walked through a cluster of Gryffindors, my robes catching and twisting in the autumn-long grass beneath my feet. Ahead, Crabbe and Goyle's faces were arranged into annoyingly perfect masks of sympathy and I crossly snapped my gaze to one side. Startled, my feet clashed and tangled, as I found myself looking right into Potter's eyes.

For a second, he returned my gaze blankly, one hand idly toying with an ink-stained quill. His lips twitched as the whispers rose, lashes dropping in a gesture of annoyance. When he opened his eyes again, a shadow had coloured his face. A glance became a glare and he turned to speak to Weasley, one foot pressing the grass beneath him into a crushed and muddied mess.

My breath caught within my throat as a strange ache settled in my stomach. Momentarily thrown, I walked the rest of the way to my friends' side with my head low, my eyes carefully focused on the ground in front of me. "It seems I'm famous," I remarked bitterly, encouraging my mouth into a brief, precarious smile.

"You've always been famous," Goyle said loyally, moving so that he and Crabbe stood to either side of me, forming a protective guard of honour.

"This time it's for the wrong reasons." Sighing, I gestured towards the battered text within Crabbe's hands. "So, what pleasures await us today?" I asked, shrewdly changing the subject. "Do you think Hagrid will have us taming dragons or bottle feeding griffins?"

"No idea." Crabbe frowned. "I hope he lets us off early, though."

"Ah yes," I smiled. "The one reason that Care of Magical Creatures claims the highest retention rate of final year students: Hagrid's appalling inability to correctly tell the time."

As I spoke, the distant shape of Hagrid's bulk began to emerge from the shadows of the Forbidden Forest. In each hand, he appeared to be clutching a large, curved cage, not unlike the type favoured for common house birds. Curious, I watched his approach, squinting slightly as I tried to make out the forms of the creatures contained within the gilded bars.

Goyle's eyesight was always better than my own. "Gnomes," he announced in disgust, turning from the sight with an annoyed shake of his head. "What does he think we are? Gardeners?"

Even the Gryffindors seemed unimpressed by Hagrid's latest lesson choice. From where we stood, I could clearly hear the unmistakable sound of Weasley's groan of irritation. "We have those at home," he complained.

"I'm not surprised," I muttered to Crabbe and Goyle, prompting a raucous bracket of laughter.

We watched disdainfully as Hagrid stopped beside the gathered Gryffindors, his breath thick and his face reddened. Placing the cages on the ground, he nodded down at the dozen or so infuriated gnomes that were squashed uncomfortably against each other within the bars' confines. "Crafty li'l blighters," he told them brightly. "Near bit me finger off, one of 'em did."

"That's encouraging." Carefully I raised my hand, widening my eyes and regarding Hagrid with perfectly manufactured curiosity. "Hagrid," I asked loudly, "why are we studying gnomes? Surely our attentions would be better focused on something a little more... challenging."

Hagrid had never been fond of me, perhaps swayed by his friendship with my enemy. "Oh, these 'uns will be a challenge," he replied, smiling tightly beneath the tangle of his beard. "They don' like being in tight spaces, do gnomes. Gets 'em right annoyed."

"There's a kind of stability in Care of Magical Creatures," I commented to my friends, as Hagrid fumbled with the clasp on the first of the cages. "You can be sure that your life will be endangered at least once a week."

Crabbe laughed. "I'd take a pissed off gnome over a real threat any day."

"I wonder what he has planned for our next lesson," I mused. "Perhaps he'll surprise us with a suitcase full of grumpy house elves."

"Malfoy!" Hagrid's tone was blunt enough to draw my attention for a moment. "Stop yer talkin' and pay attention."

Unimpressed, I raised one eyebrow and crossed my arms. "Go on, then," I drawled. "If I learn anything important, I'll be sure to pass the information on to our gardener next time I'm home."

Ignoring me, he cast a look around the rest of my class. "Come in closer," he ordered. "We don' want any of 'em to be gettin' away."

Obediently, the Gryffindors formed a neat circle around him, trying to feign interest in Hagrid's ridiculous choice of subject. Rolling my eyes, I led Crabbe and Goyle to the point of the circle furthest from where Potter stood, stopping a few paces back from the students in front of me. My friends remained on either side of me, their arms crossed in a blatant gesture of contempt, as I turned my gaze to Hagrid's battle with the two birdcages.

After a few seconds of amusement at his clownish attempts to open the cages, my concentration lapsed and I found myself looking beyond Hagrid and into the expressionless eyes of Harry Potter. Every line of his face was guarded, his lips slack and horizontal as his lashes fell and then rose again in a blink almost too brief a flicker to be noticed. The immobility of his features caught and taunted my interest, folding my attention into his grasp.

I watched the subtle movement of tendons beneath his neck, tracing the angles of his jaw with my eyes and brushing glances over the intriguing swell of his cheeks. His face was so different to my own, curved and fluid where mine was sharp and disjointed. The differences surpassed the basics of colouring, each bend and crease rendered with crude distinction. We were shaped to be opponents, the serenity of his features absorbing the light just as my skin and hair reflected it.

Like perfect enemies, we stared at each other and then turned away. The harsh rumble of Hagrid's voice magnified, and I watched the movements of his hands as though unaware of Potter's form in the blur of my peripheral vision.

"Best do it in pairs," Hagrid directed us, his earlier instructions lost somewhere within the reflection of Potter's gaze. "Don' pull their beards and remember to bow yer head when yer shakin' hands."

"What are we doing?" I whispered to Goyle, watching out of the corner of my eye as Hagrid finally mastered the clasp on the closest of the gilded cages.

"Making friends with them," Goyle replied, his words fat with disgust.

"Oh. How useful." I smiled cynically, my eyes following Hagrid's actions. "I've always wanted to invite a few gnomes to our family dinner parties but, up until now, I just didn't have the connections."

Pulling a cursing gnome from the cage by the scruff of his neck, Hagrid stepped between two bemused Gryffindor girls and shoved the struggling creature towards me. "Yer keen, goin' by the chatter," he said, his eyes suggesting that he had heard every word I'd said. "Yeh can go first."

Shrugging, I looked from Goyle to Crabbe. "Which of you would like to be my partner?" I asked benevolently.

"You'll be workin' with Harry," Hagrid announced, before either had the chance to answer. "Just to be sure yeh do yer work."

The whispers and giggles began before he had even finished his sentence. Most seemed to flow from the circle of Gryffindors, but I found it a little hard to believe that several Slytherins had developed coughs at precisely the same moment. Ignoring the reaction, I focused my attention on the squirming gnome in front of me, reluctantly taking it from Hagrid's grasp. Nose wrinkled, it stared accusatively up at me. As I glared back, I hoped that my cheeks remained free of colour.

"That's not fair!" The sound of Potter's indignant squawk carried easily in the crisp morning air. "Why should _I_ be punished, just because he's an intolerable prat?"

"I didn' mean to punish yeh." Confused, Hagrid watched Potter from beneath lowered brows, his eyes questioning. Something in his tone made me wonder how much Potter confided in him when it came to matters involving myself.

"I'm not working with him." His arms crossed, Potter's mouth formed a thin and obstinate line. When I tried to meet his gaze, he refused to look at me, his eyes focused firmly on the ground in front of him. "I'd rather fail the entire year than be forced to be Malfoy's partner for so much as a minute."

Around me, the whispers grew, their syllables stretching and amplifying. To my right, Crabbe's shoulders tensed, his hands curling up as they moved tightly to his sides. Without looking, I could predict the belligerent glare that would be shadowing his features, mirrored by a similar expression on Goyle's face. Almost imperceptibly, I shook my head, warning them to remain silent.

"I'm not a disobedient child," I informed Hagrid coolly, willing my heartbeat to return to normal. "I can assure you that there's no need to assign me a nanny."

Hagrid watched Potter for a few seconds before turning to me. "Go on then," he grumbled. "Pair up with Pansy."

A faint smile lifted Potters lips as Pansy attached herself quickly to my side. I took the gnome from Hagrid's grasp and tried to pretend I couldn't hear the murmurs of curiosity that flowed around me. As I bowed to the creature, Potter's eyes followed my movements from beneath lowered lashes.

 

*

 

"Stay away from him." Weasley's fingers pressed heated indentations into my arm.

Turning, I kept my features expressionless as I took in the angry flush to his cheeks and ears. "Away from whom?" I asked, tone bored.

"Harry, of course." The fingertips pushed a little deeper, his nails beginning to cut into my skin, even through the thick fabric of my robes.

"And why should I do that?" Calmly, I extracted my arm from his grasp, a sharp movement with just sufficient force to work myself free.

"Because we both know you're just playing with him. And he deserves better than that."

I smiled. Weasley's tone was firm and his words admirable, but the slant of his shoulders and hue of his cheeks betrayed the true emotion that lay beneath such immovability. He played the role of best friend impeccably, but there was something in his eyes that suggested his intentions were not solely selfless.

"Let me guess. Better as in... you?"

Frowning, he blinked quickly, lines forming and collecting in the centre of his brows. "Of course not." His tone was too light, syllables too brief. "Harry's my best friend; that's all."

"Strange," I mused. "For a moment there, I could have sworn you were jealous."

"Of you? Not likely." Distracted, he paused before re-gathering his thoughts. "This isn't about me. It's about Harry and the way you treat him."

"Go on." I could see that my smile was irritating him, so I stretched my lips a little wider, eyes round with innocence. "Tell me how I treat him."

"You _know_ how you treat him." His eyes narrowed. "I wouldn't be surprised if you planned all this with Neville. It'd be just your style." Stepping forward a little, he shoved me lightly, the palm of his hand pressing flat against my chest, the skin pale and mottled with freckles. "What did you do? Pre-arrange things so that Neville walked in at exactly the right moment?"

"Of course." I stared at him incredulously. "Because my greatest ambition has always been to have the entire school think I'm in love with Harry Potter."

"They don't think that."

"No? Then what _do_ they think?"

"Hermione thinks you're on an ego trip."

I laughed. "Where's the kudos in kissing Potter? He's so desperate for love that he'd fall at the feet of anyone foolish enough to offer him the slightest hint of interest."

"I think you underestimate him," Weasley replied. "Besides, I never said I agreed with her."

"I thought the two of you were inseparable these days." Tilting my head to one side, I watched him through my lashes, my words slow and cynical. "Don't tell me you're having problems already."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Angry, his face paled, the skin stretching taught over his features as though shaped by his irritation. The tan of his freckles punctuated the pallor, stark and irregular. "I hate to disappoint you, but we're fine."

"Do you love her?" Interested, I awaited his response, watching the slight movement of the veins in his neck as he opened his mouth momentarily before closing it again.

"Yes," he said finally. "Not that it's any of your business."

"And does she love you?"

"Yes," he repeated, his voice a little stronger.

"As much as she loves Potter?"

The slice and tangle of emotions on Weasley's face was fascinating, his eyes and mouth reshaping with the passage of each second as he struggled to counter my insinuation. "Fuck you, Malfoy," he spat finally, his words sharp and malformed. Running a hand through the mess of his hair, he stepped back slightly, as though to distance himself from my words. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Sore spot?" I inquired sweetly, raising one eyebrow delicately.

He didn't respond, instead concentrating on the uneven pattern of the grass beneath his feet, his eyelids flickering as he followed the line of each wind-bent blade.

"I'll take that as a yes."

"Of course she loves him." Weasley's words were quick and careless, but shadowed by fear and hesitation. "We both do; he's our best friend. That doesn't mean that we're _in_ love with him. It's a different thing entirely—not that you'd ever understand that. I doubt you've had a true friend in your life."

Confident in my circle and in Crabbe and Goyle's loyalty, I smiled benignly. "Tell me," I said calmly. "How _are_ things going between the two of you?"

"I don't see how that's any of your business."

"Call it a mild interest."

His hair had grown darker over the years, still recognisable as the distinctive Weasley red, but faded by years in the sun and shaded by seasons of dusty schoolrooms. As we spoke, I tried to picture what it was about him that might attract Granger—or, indeed, anyone. It was hard to find any beauty in his features, even shadowed with gold by the sun's touch. His was a blunt face, the staccato of his freckles destroying any continuity within its form. I could not imagine someone wanting to kiss his weak lips or to stare into the forgettable colour of his eyes. To me, it seemed that there must be more to Granger's dedication than simple attraction.

"We've not been together long." Begrudgingly, Weasley replied to my question.

"Do you trust her?" Intrigued, I watched the play of emotions on his face, glad to distract him from the subject of my indiscretions with his best friend.

There was a pause before he spoke. "Of course."

"She never seemed the type," I said slowly, the opacity of my words intentional. "Miss Perfect, always top of her classes and clearly within the rules..."

"What do you mean?" His eyes reflected his distrust.

My smile widened. "Is she so quick to sleep with _all_ the boys, or were you her first?"

He seemed torn between punching me or simply walking away, his eyes darkening with a combination of anger and unease. His fingers tensing and curling inwards, he eventually dropped his gaze, his gingery lashes twitching with the ambivalence of his emotion. "Were you born a bastard," he asked, voice thick with disgust, "or did you take classes?"

"It's in my blood." Shrugging, I leaned towards him, dropping my tone to a near-whisper. "Tell me: do you ever lie in bed at night, wondering when she'll leave you for someone more worthwhile?"

"No."

"What about Potter? You said yourself that she loves him."

"They're friends. We all are. You know that." There was a slight whine to Weasley's tone as he met my gaze. "Besides, this isn't about me and it isn't about Hermione. It's about you keeping the hell away from Harry," he continued, as though attempting to cover his previous uncertainty with valiant statements.

"What if he doesn't want me to stay away?" I met his eyes, my tone challenging. "Surely Potter's opinion is the one that matters."

"You're deluded if you actually think he's interested in you." Weasley met my gaze admirably, his voice steady. "So he kissed you once or twice. Big deal."

When I responded, there was a slight quiver marring my words, a worrying fact that I pushed rapidly from my mind. "Whether Potter likes me or not is of absolutely no consequence to me."

"He doesn't love you." Weasley's tone was as cold as his statement. "He loves me, and he loves Hermione, and he loves Gryffindor. There's no room in his world for some cocky Slytherin whose only goal in life is to ruin _his_."

"Then why does he keep coming back?" Despite myself, his words were beginning to cut into me, slicing beneath my stoic demeanour.

"Because you want him to."

I blinked, surprised by his answer. "Why would I want _him_ following me around like some misguided disciple?"

"Because it stokes your ego?"

"Unlike you, I don't need Potter's attentions to feel good about myself," I retorted, my eyes narrowing as I watched him.

His earlier discomfort seemingly forgotten, Weasley smiled coldly at me, his expression fixed and insidious. "Why did you kiss him, then?" he asked. "If you're not careful, it'll start to look like you're _interested_ in him."

"Harry Potter means nothing to me," I avowed.

"Good." Weasley's smile was an inverted snarl. "Then you won't mind leaving him alone."

"I don't take orders from Weasleys." Tiring of the conversation, I made no effort to stifle a sudden yawn.

"Harry's too good for you." Weasley ignored my disinterest, pressing a finger into my chest in a clichéd gesture of force. "I'm not sure how you've tricked him into tolerating your company, but it won't last. He'll never like you... and he'll certainly never _love_ you."

My laugh was a fraction too harsh. "I'm glad." Turning, I rearranged the textbooks within my arms, suddenly eager to return to the Slytherin common room, where I would be free from the irritations of annoying Gryffindors. "I have better things to do with my day than talking to you," I said loudly as I walked away.

"You're Harry's enemy," Weasley called in response. "He hates you. Don't ever forget that."

Scowling, I continued walking without pause, kicking the grass in front of me in a futile attempt to dispel the feeling of tight anxiety that was beginning to form within my stomach. "I won't forget," I muttered, pulling my robes tight around myself in order to combat the chill of the rising wind. "I won't _let_ myself forget."

Behind me, Weasley began to laugh.

 

*

 

The musty atmosphere of the Slytherin dungeons surrounded me with calm familiarity as I walked into the common room, dropping my books onto a side table with an irritated twitch of my hand. Looking around, I was glad to find the area near empty, my only company being a quiet group of first years who sat huddled around a table in the far corner, its surface covered with scrolls and quills. As I sunk heavily onto the couch closest to the fireplace, a few turned to look at me, quickly dropping their gazes to the homework in front of them when I confronted their curiosity with a cool stare of indifference.

Removing my shoes, I pushed them beneath the bulk of the couch, folding my legs beneath myself and leaning back against the cushions. My arms crossed, I glared into the black and orange coals that lay untended on the hearth, left to smoulder while classes occupied the attentions of the more conscientious students. My conversation with Weasley had coiled my previous unease into tight irritation, and my fingernails dug furrows in the palms of my hands as I stared moodily ahead, my mind fabricating innumerable demises for Potter's best friend.

I was contemplating the intricacies of decapitation when the door to the common room opened, the movement causing a cool draft to lift my hair and brush across my features. Occupied by my sulking, I didn't turn to acknowledge the newcomer, instead refining my glare into the classic Malfoy scowl, almost wishing that my friends were there to witness my flawless indignation.

"You weren't in class."

The words were more an accusation than a statement. Turning, my scowl faltered a little as I looked into the unreadable face of Pansy Parkinson. "I wasn't in the mood for Divination."

"I'm never in the mood for it." Her lips twitched upwards slightly as she shrugged. "I pretended to have a terrible premonition, after which I—understandably—felt rather faint. Trelawney sent me to the hospital wing for a lie down. I came looking for you instead."

"I'll remember to try that one in the future."

"What's _your_ excuse?" In a few smooth movements she closed the distance between us, arranging herself on the cushion beside me.

"I was accosted by Ron Weasley," I growled, frowning down at my feet. "After a few minutes of that scintillating conversation, I was already close enough to suicide without enduring an hour of throw cushions and false predictions."

"I can imagine. What did he want?" She didn't look at me as she spoke, but the strength of her words betrayed her interest in my response.

"He wants me to stay away from Potter."

"That shouldn't be too hard." There was a heavy pause. Finally, she turned, watching me with guarded eyes. "Should it?"

My laugh splintered. "Of course not."

"People are talking." Brushing aside a stray lock of hair with one curved finger, she leaned towards me. "I've never heard so many whispers in all my time at Hogwarts. No one knows what to believe."

"What do _you_ believe?"

Shrugging slightly, she smiled. "I believe you." Her giggle was tight and self-conscious. "Of course, that doesn't mean a thing, seeing as I've not heard your side of things yet."

"Does it matter?" Scowling, I picked angrily at the fabric of the cushion beside me, my fingernails catching and tugging at the uneven weave in an oddly soothing rhythm. "I'm sure people are capable of fabricating the most complex of situations without my personal input."

"It matters to me." Carefully, she slid cool fingers around my own, silently stilling my erratic motions.

My expression weakening, I allowed her to entangle my hand, calming me with the languid stroke of thumb on thumb. Her perfume hung thinly in the stale dungeon air, floral and absurdly exotic for the setting. The combination of touch and scent reminded me of summer, the familiarity of her presence a welcome escape from the changeability of the previous few days. Unfurling my legs from beneath me, I tightened my grasp on Pansy's hand, pulling her gently towards me and twisting her into a crude, one-armed embrace. "Thank you."

"You don't have to tell me anything." Her fingers twisted in the folds of my robes and the curiosity in her voice and actions was salient. "Of course, that's not to say I'm not intrigued as hell by Longbottom's little declaration."

"I'm surprised he had the nerve," I mused, settling around her as our bodies shaped together, our limbs folding about each other in an often-tested pattern. "I wonder how the Gryffindors have taken his little betrayal."

"I can't imagine they'd be too pleased." Her breath was warm against my shoulder. "But how are you feeling?"

"Exposed," I admitted.

"Remember the rumours when we first got together?" she asked quietly, her syllables thickened by the tranquillity of the moment. "Whenever we walked into here, everyone would stop talking and _stare_ , as though they would be able to tell just by looking at us whether anything was going on."

"That was different, though. Something _was_ going on."

"True." Laughing, she nudged me. "Remember that time they caught us coming out of the Forbidden Forest?"

"That's right." Unbidden, my hand found a way to the back of her head, my fingers stroking and smoothing her hair as I spoke. "We told them Professor Sprout had sent us on a herb finding mission."

"And no one believed a word of it." For a moment, neither of us spoke, each deep within our own memories. Finally, sighing, she continued. "It seems like such a long time ago now."

"Less than a year," I reminded her.

"True." Turning her head to look up at me, she frowned. "But now it's not about me and you any more, is it? They're talking about you kissing Harry Potter. And no one knows _what_ to think."

"Then perhaps they should _stop_ thinking," I retorted, my shoulders tensing.

"Sometimes it's hard." She shrugged, her voice tentative. "I can't help wondering."

Perhaps foolishly, I decided to be honest with her. "I did kiss him. I wanted to prove that I could."

"So you're not... _gay_... then?" she asked hesitantly.

"Of course not!" I twisted out of her grasp, turning my body so that I was sitting sideways on the couch, facing towards her. "Is that what people are saying?"

"Some."

"And you believed them?"

"I was scared that when we were together, it was just an act," she said slowly. "I know we broke up, but you used to say you loved me and I'd hate to think you were only with me because you didn't want to admit you preferred other boys."

"Of course not."

"I mean, if you didn't like girls you should have just said so," she went on, oblivious to my reply, her words emerging stretched and overly-fast. "Were you pretending I was him every time we made love?"

"No!" My raised voice collected some interested glances from the forgotten first years, but they quickly looked away once they saw the dark expression colouring my face. Reaching forward, I gathered Pansy's hands within my own, squeezing them a little more tightly than was necessary. "I told you; I'm not gay. Just because I kissed Potter, that doesn't mean that he and I are together. And it certainly doesn't mean that I never cared about you."

It was true. Perhaps I had never been able to love Pansy the right way, and perhaps I had felt an inexplicable rush of relief when our relationship had ended, but I had always cared about her. When we were together, she was my friend and confidant as well as my girlfriend, and it was that easy closeness that I missed most now that our breakup had placed distance where once there had been none.

"You're not about to say otherwise, though, are you?" she persisted.

"I'm telling the truth." Frustrated, I pulled her towards me, wrapping one hand around the back of her neck and pressing my mouth to hers in a brusque, but lengthy, kiss.

By the time we parted, she was blushing, her hands clenched around my robes with unexpected fervour. My lips felt torn and swollen, and I resisted the urge to brush curious fingers across my mouth, instead tightening my hands into loose, inactive fists. I told myself that the intensity of the kiss had flustered me, but it was difficult to ignore the vague feeling of guilt that slithered within my stomach.

"Trying to prove something?" she asked, smiling slightly.

"Did it work?"

"I choose to reserve judgement." Her smile freezing, she leaned inwards to return my kiss, her arms looping possessively around my neck.

Caught, I didn't fight the contact, instead participating as genuinely as I could manage. The familiarity of her embrace was strangely alluring, her body curved and soft where Potter's was hard and lightly muscled. There was nothing new about the feel of Pansy's form beneath my hands, every inch of her skin known and every gesture routine. It was easy to tell myself that any lack of excitement was due entirely to our dappled history, but thoughts of Potter flickered through my mind nonetheless, causing my arms to tighten a little closer around Pansy's waist as her hair fell softly against my cheek.

As Pansy held me, I thought of him, remembering the idiosyncrasies of his kiss and the way my stomach had twisted whenever we had touched. As she slid gentle fingers beneath my shirt I saw his eyes within my head, cold and guarded like they had been earlier that day.  Thrown, I pulled away, forcing my mouth into a tight smile so that Pansy wouldn't think that anything was wrong.

"Well?" I asked finally. "Do you believe me?"

"I guess," she shrugged. "Does this mean we're..."

"No." As gently as possible, I brushed her hair back from her face, meeting her gaze without blinking or looking away. "We've been through this before, Pansy."

Her mouth twitched. "I know. But sometimes..." She paused, looking down at her hands. "We were the perfect couple, Draco. Everyone said so."

"But it wasn't enough, remember?"

She sighed, turning and sliding back into my embrace. "I remember." A pause. "If you loved him, would you tell me?"

It was hard to know how to answer. "Sure."

"I'll hold you to that."

Smiling, I bent to kiss the crown of her head, tightening my arms around her as a clamour of footsteps signalled the end of class—and of our relative privacy. "You're too good to me," I laughed.

"I know."

As the chatter of our housemates rose to a crescendo around us, I closed my eyes and concentrated on the weight of Pansy's body in my arms, wishing that I could return to the time when things truly were so much less complicated.

 

*

 

Potter's fingers dug into the flesh of my shoulder as I was dragged unceremoniously into an empty classroom, my elbow connecting painfully with the doorframe as I stumbled past. "I hear you kissed Pansy Parkinson," he remarked flatly, moving stiffly over to lift himself onto the surface of the nearest desk.

Shaking my head, I couldn't quite suppress a chuckle. "I had a feeling those first years were more interested in us than in their school work."

"What? That's your only comment?" Potter picked angrily at the varnish of the wood beneath his hand. "No explanation?"

"I wasn't aware that I had to explain _anything_ to you," I retorted, my smile quickly transforming into a scowl.

"You wouldn't be, though, would you," he muttered, his fringe falling forward to shade his downcast eyes.

"Merlin’s beard." Rubbing my elbow, I moved to sit beside him, keeping a few inches distance between us. "Yesterday you weren't speaking to me, and now you're acting like a girl. For starters, Potter, I can kiss whoever the hell I want to kiss. And, what's more, I don't see how it's any of your business anyway."

"It's my business because a week ago you were kissing _me_."

"Jealous?"

"Of course not."

"You are, you know." Stretching sideways, I nudged him lightly with my shoulder. "Why else would you care what I did with Pansy?"

He twitched away from the contact, folding further in on himself. "I don't," he murmured, his words tight and his shoulders tense. "But if you're going to do these things just to get to me..."

"I didn't." Shrugging, I dropped to my feet, walking over to stare through the dusty glass of the window to Potter's rear. Outside, the clouds hung low and heavy, laden with what promised to be the first snow fall of the year.  Clusters of my fellow students walked in chilled huddles, scarves wrapped tightly around their necks. Suppressing a sudden shiver, I stepped back slightly, twisting my robes a little closer around me. "I did it to reassure her that our entire relationship wasn’t some deliberate ploy to hide my feelings for you."

"Did it work?" Even without moving, I knew that his frown hadn't faded, the expression thick within his voice.

"I think so."

"What was it like?" Turning, I was surprised to find him looking at me, his eyes intense beneath the overhang of his hair. "Kissing her, I mean," he continued, his tone bitter. "Did it turn you on? Is she a better kisser than me? Are you going to get back together?"

"You _are_ jealous." My tone was matter of fact; I knew my nonchalance would irritate him.

"Of you?" Shaking his head erratically, he brushed the hair from his eyes with an uneasy hand. "Draco, you're no great catch, regardless of what you might believe. You're cold and you're egotistical and you _play_ with people. It's like nobody really matters to you but yourself."

I raised an eyebrow, torn between bemusement and offence. "And you love me for it."

"No... no..." His mouth twitched, his shoulders rising. Folding his arms tightly across his chest, he stared at me through shadowed eyes. "You're not the sort of guy it pays to care about."

I closed the distance between us, clasping his shoulder roughly as his knees brushed against my thigh. "Do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Care."

His smile was ironic, his tone cynical. "You didn't answer _my_ questions. Why should I answer yours?"

"I've kissed her before," I said, my candour visibly surprising him and, to an extent, myself. "Many times. It was familiar, that's all."

"Did you love her?" The question was hesitant.

"Yes. You know that. But not in the way you’re asking."

There was a long silence before he spoke again, looking away as he framed the words. " _Do_ you love her?"

"She's a friend." Laughing coolly, I let my hand drop to my side, warmed by our brief contact. "Slytherins have those too, you know. Pansy and I have history."

"Why did you break up with her?"

"We had our reasons." His silence indicated that my answer was not enough. "We're great together, Pansy and I," I continued. "Too great. There was no..."

"Danger?" Potter supplied.

"Challenge," I finished. "It was expected that we get together, expected that we would fall in love. My actual feelings didn’t come into it. My mother still asks me when we’ll be getting back together, you know. As though it’s set in stone. Call me contrary, but that sort of thing can get a little stifling after a while."

"And that's where I came in, right?" His mouth twisted bitterly.

Quickly, perhaps a little too sharp: "You had nothing to do with our break up."

"I wasn't suggesting that. You still didn’t answer my other question, though. Are you going to get back together?"

I frowned, pushing tense fingers through my hair and displacing its careful arrangement. The thought of being with Pansy again was seductive. In returning to the security of our relationship, the annoyances of recent months would be discarded, gossip and rumours hidden beneath the renewed expectations for the Slytherin king and queen. Without fuel, the chain of assumption would be broken and the attention surrounding me would wither into its previous forms.

Tempted by such simplicity, I looked at Potter with a more definite eye, my gaze flickering over the smooth curve of his jaw and lingering on his mouth before rising to meet his eyes. He blinked twice, his dark lashes casting thin shadows upon his cheeks, then watched me motionlessly, his lips slightly parted. Torchlight painted slinking reflections on the lenses of his glasses, fragmenting into shards of liquid gold within the green irises of his eyes. Silently, I traced the line of his neck with one, tentative finger, ignoring the stifled shiver that the gesture produced.

"I wouldn't do that to her," I murmured finally.

"But you'd like to," he replied firmly.

I didn't answer, my only response conveyed by an almost imperceptible shrug of my shoulders.

"I need to know." His voice tight, he caught my hands within his own, his grip hot and crushing. "Was it better with her?"

I tried to keep my own tone light. "When?" I asked, my pulse amplifying within his grasp. "Yesterday, or back then."

"Either. I mean, both." Frowning, he shook his head. "Mostly yesterday."

"I can't believe we're even discussing this." Thrown, I pulled away, stepping backward and out of his reach. "You're not my boyfriend, Potter. At the risk of repeating myself, we're sworn enemies. On Monday, you were horrified at the mere thought of being made my partner in class, remember? If I got off on kissing Pansy, then that's my business, not yours. I've kissed her a thousand times; I've done a lot _more_ than that too. Why the sudden interest?"

Slowly, his eyes closed, his chest rising as his hands met and clasped erratically, one thumb stretching and distorting the skin of his knuckles in heavy, uneven strokes. "No interest," he replied dully and, for a moment, my throat was too swollen for me to breathe.

His face seemed grey, monochromatic in line and colour. "Good," I growled, although my voice emerged a squeak.

"Good," he repeated, opening his eyes but staring right through me.

My chest tight, I backed away, my back brushing against the harsh solidity of the doorframe as I slid into the corridor, unable to look away from Potter's face until it was obscured by the angle of the half-open door. Leaning against the stone wall, I ran shaking fingers over the rough-hewn rock, the coarse patterns uncomfortable and soothing beneath my touch. I took a breath, adjusted the collar of my robes, and walked unsteadily away.

 

*

 

"But you _have_ to come," Pansy protested, her hand tight around my own. "You're the Slytherin captain. Aren't you supposed to be preparing for future matches?"

"I've seen Ravenclaw and Gryffindor play a thousand times," I protested, allowing her to drag me into the Quidditch stands nonetheless. "I doubt I'm going to receive any vital revelations for my future game play."

"This wouldn't be anything to do with Potter, would it?" she teased.

"Of course not." To prove my point, I tugged my hand free of hers and pushed ahead, taking my place beside Goyle in the front row. "What's up?" I asked, leaning over to peer at the textbook that lay open on his lap.

"We've got a test in Herbology this week," he said mournfully, not lifting his eyes from the page. "Something to do with milking sap from succulents, but I wouldn't have a clue how we're supposed to do that."

"Try the index," Pansy suggested, sliding into the seat to my right.

Looking up, Goyle shrugged sheepishly. "I spilled ink all over it. I couldn't read a thing any more, so I tore those pages out."

"I'll help you out after the game," I said generously, "although it’s a pity I don't take the class. Can you borrow Zabini's book?"

Goyle's reply was lost in the roar of the crowd as the Ravenclaw team emerged from the side of the pitch, nodding to the crowd before mounting their broomsticks and rising smoothly into the air. Despite myself, I began to feel the usual rush of adrenalin that accompanied the start of any Quidditch match, a familiar combination of contentment and anticipation. Leaning forward, I rested my elbows on the green and silver covered rail that ran the length of the Slytherin area of the stands, watching carefully as the Ravenclaw captain ran his team through a few last minute drills.

"I hear the Ravenclaw team thinks they have a chance today," Pansy shouted above the clamour. "Since you beat Potter to the Snitch, the Gryffindors don't seem quite so infallible."

"Infallible?" I shook my head, smiling in bemusement. "Wait until next year when Potter's gone. They'll soon find that they're as imperfect as any other team."

A second rise in volume signified the arrival of the Gryffindor team, the crimson of their robes forming a stark contrast to the muted greens of the pitch. Without any acknowledgment of the crowd, Potter took to the air, the other members of his team following suite. Circling the perimeter of the playing area, they shaped themselves into a crude V shape, watching their opponents' manoeuvres through uniformly narrowed eyes.

As they crossed in front of where I was sitting, Potter met my eye, a fleeting interaction that entangled my breathing and froze my limbs into brief paralysis. His face remained still and lifeless, the shadow of his hair casting harsh lines across his mouth as he blinked twice and looked away. The speed of their circuit had shrunk his form into the distance by the time I rearranged my mouth into a scowl, the gesture stilted and stretched upon my face. I watched as he pulled his broomstick into an effortless dive, twisting into a sharp loop-the-loop only metres from the ground.

The Gryffindor stand gasped at his show of control, first and second years rising from their seats in order to press excitedly against the railing, their eyes wide with admiration. A discordant collection of boos and hisses earned the Ravenclaws stern looks from the more proper of our teachers, but good sportsmanship was never a large part of Hogwarts Quidditch and there was rarely any danger of house spirit being punished. Rather, I smiled as Snape nodded appreciatively at their antipathy and enviously eyed the "Down with Gryffindor" badge that Edwards displayed proudly on his scarf.

"Show off," I muttered, folding my arms tightly across my chest.

The balls were released and the game began. Within minutes, I was immersed, watching the play through calculating eyes and devising new and complicated drills for our next Quidditch practice. The roar of the crowd rose and fell around me, quickening my heartbeat.

As Weasley narrowly missed having his head removed by an enthusiastic Bludger, a flash of gold caught my attention. Turning my head slightly, I spotted the Snitch hovering a few feet in front of me, unnoticed by either Seeker. Quietly, I nudged Goyle, gesturing towards the winged ball with my head. He grunted in acknowledgment, leaning forward a little as he watched the Ravenclaw Seeker fly past without detecting her prey. Smirking, I shook my head in disdain, confident that I would never have made such an appalling error if I had been placed in the same situation.

"Amateurs," I remarked, earning me a soft giggle from Pansy.

"Don't let Potter hear you say that," she teased, "or he'll never kiss you again."

I laughed, surprising myself. "I'll keep that in mind," I replied, and turned to look for the subject of our conversation.

In the air, Potter was remarkably graceful. Separated from us by the width of the Quidditch pitch, his steady movements and expert turns remained apparent. Never fully at ease in his own skin during his day to day existence, it was as though he became someone else entirely once mounted upon a broomstick. The sunlight reflected from the dark mess of his hair in a broken halo of shimmering gold and the cut of his robes emphasised the fading tan of his skin. Noticing an oncoming bludger, he manoeuvred his broomstick into a tight, defensive loop, his actions seeming almost effortless despite the complexity of the move.

Reluctantly impressed, I continued to watch as he began a slow circuit of the pitch. Bent forward over his broomstick, the strength of his concentration was almost tangible, the tense lines of his body remaining motionless as he rose a little further into the air. Oblivious to the noise of the crowd, he gave no acknowledgment of the frenetic cheers of his housemates as he passed the Gryffindor area of the stands.

In front of me, the Snitch appeared to quiver for a moment before dropping out of my line of vision. This time, its movement did not go unnoticed, Potter's path having brought him to within metres of his target. Diving sharply, he began his pursuit, his legs twisting more tightly around the wood of his broomstick so that one arm could be free to capture the Snitch. Caught on the far side of the pitch, the Ravenclaw Seeker could do little but attempt to catch up, already outmanoeuvred and unlikely to be much competition.

As Potter grew ever nearer to the Snitch, the excited shouts of the crowd began to transform into murmurs of amusement that soon echoed from stand to stand in a tuneless chorus of laughter. Confused, I turned to Goyle, whose loud guffaws rose above the more restrained snickers of those around us. Wiping his eyes with the back of one large hand, he shrugged sheepishly and pointed towards a cluster of Ravenclaw students, biting his lower lip and shaking slightly with repressed laughter. Curious, I followed the direction of his gesture and froze as I saw the catalyst for the crowd's amusement.

A second year student whom I vaguely recognised stood at the front of the stands, surrounded by housemates laughing appreciatively as he held aloft a crude sign bearing the words "Harry loves Malfoy". The crimson letters stood out in strong contrast against the white of the card, the sunlight or a careful charm causing the glossy background to glow brightly. My heart pounded in my chest and my eardrums as my fingers tightened around the railing in front of me. To my right, Pansy giggled nervously, the sound grating as it reached my ears, tightening my spine and jaw.

"You're famous, Draco," she said gingerly, wrapping cool fingers around my knuckles and loosening their tension a little.

"Just what I want to be famous for," I snapped. Offended, she withdrew her hand.

Forcing myself to breathe slowly and deeply, I quickly surveyed the crowd. Finally, satisfied that the Ravenclaw boy was the sole offender, I turned to Goyle. "At least it isn't the other way around," I said tightly, shrugging.

His laughter finally under control, Goyle nodded sympathetically. "It could be a lot worse. Great Quidditch ploy, though."

Sighing, I turned my attention back to the game in front of us. Unbelievably, Potter remained in pursuit of the Snitch, obviously still completely unaware that he was providing so much amusement to the crowd. One arm outstretched, he was now only inches from his goal, his brows furrowed in intense concentration as he strained forward on his broomstick. As the Snitch led him closer to where I stood, I could make out the lines of dark determination that surrounded his eyes.

Just as he was about to make contact, the Snitch turned sharply and headed towards the Ravenclaw area of the stands. Cursing loudly enough for the words to carry towards me, Potter followed suit. As he raised his head to look in front of him, I could make out the exact moment that he saw the sign. His entire body drooped, even his raised arm sagging towards the shaft of his broomstick as the Snitch dove, unnoticed, towards the ground. I was unable to see his face, but I could read both shock and shame in the downward curve of his shoulders, his legs stretching as his broomstick slowed.

I saw the Bludger a moment before it hit him, my mouth opening in a belated whisper of "look out" as it slammed into one leg, twisting it out of shape and flinging him sideways on the broomstick. Within the passage of a second, the crowd's amusement turned to horror, wordless gasps rising around me, even from the mouths of my own housemates. Silently I watched, unable to breathe, as Potter's grip loosened, faltered and failed. As he fell, I closed my eyes, strangely disinterested in seeing my sworn enemy tumble towards the ground.

Sounds rose, fell and echoed within my ears, as I stood motionless amidst the clamour. I could hear the throbbing of my heartbeat, my pulse stretching the veins in my neck until it seemed everyone in the vicinity must be able to see the movement. My knees threatened to buckle beneath me, feeling hot and liquid beneath the sagging weight of my body. Distantly aware of the sounds of motion, I refused to open my eyes.

"He isn't moving," Pansy remarked, a gleeful fascination colouring her words.

"Is he dead?" Goyle brushed roughly against me in his eagerness to watch the scene below us, forcing my eyes to flicker open reflexively.

Apprehensively, I looked down, cringing inwardly as I saw the cluster of bodies surrounding Potter's motionless form. I could recognise Weasley and Granger amongst the group, which seemed largely to be comprised of professors and the two Quidditch teams. As I watched, Madam Pomfrey joined the crowd, moving straight to Potter's side.

"If he were dead, I doubt they would have bothered with Pomfrey," a fourth year commented from somewhere to my rear.

"True," Goyle admitted, before prodding me bluntly in the stomach with his elbow. "You okay, Draco?" he asked, his eyebrows raised.

"Sure," I muttered, shaking my head and turning from the scene below us. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well, seeing as you kissed him and all, I thought you—"

Abruptly, I cut him off. "You thought wrong." Pushing past Pansy, I made my way into the aisle. "The game's over," I snapped, not directing my comment at anyone in particular. "I'm heading back to the common room."

Pansy rose as though to join me, but Goyle held her back, barring the movement with an out-flung arm. "I wouldn't," I heard him say, as I moved towards the stairs. "I think he wants to be alone."

Frowning, I rubbed my eyes and headed for the cool sanctuary of the dungeons.

 

*

 

I had visited the hospital wing on several occasions, mostly for minor injuries sustained in Quidditch practice or from straying too close to one of Longbottom's Potions disasters, but I had never entered the area through any interest in the health of one of my fellow students. When Crabbe or Goyle had a rare cold, I tended to stay as far away from them as possible, wary of catching the virus myself. Something had drawn me this time, however, a deep-set curiosity that hadn't been tempered by reports that Potter would eventually recover with no ill effects. After three restless hours sitting in the Slytherin common room, attempting to complete a simple Potions assignment, I knew that hearsay would not be enough. I needed to see Potter for myself.

The hospital wing after dark was an eerie place, its stone corridors lit only infrequently by dim torches. As I made my way to the main room, I began to feel unusually nervous, the still silence of the halls contributing to my consternation.  By the time I found myself at the door to the room, I was beginning to contemplate turning back, unsure of my reasons for being there in the first place. Staring down at the oversized brass door handle, I paused, feeling as though entering would be a statement I was not yet sure I wanted to make.

"What are you doing here?" Madam Pomfrey stepped from the shadows, her arms crossed officiously.

"I... uh... wanted to see Potter," I stammered, caught off guard.

"Yes?" She was obviously suspicious, her brows furrowing in disbelief. "And why is that?"

"Just a visit." This time, my voice emerged a little more convincingly. "I assume that's allowed."

Frowning, she peered up at me as though trying to see past my carefully manufactured expression of innocence. "And why would a Malfoy be interested in visiting Harry Potter?" she asked. "I would have thought you'd be glad of his absence from class over the next few days."

"I'd like to know that myself," I muttered, suddenly unable to meet her gaze.

There was a moment of silence as she considered my response. "He's still very weak," she said finally. "You may visit him, but only for a few minutes."

"Thank you." A forced smile upon my face, I placed my hand on the door handle and tentatively pushed it downwards, the metal cold and forbidding beneath my palm. The door swung inwards, a smooth rush of warmth surrounding me before disintegrating in the relative cool of the corridor.

"Behave yourself," Pomfrey warned, her tone firm. "If I find out you're here to torment that poor, injured boy..."

Reluctant to receive yet another lecture on the merits of Harry Potter, I quickly stepped inside the room, pushing the door closed behind me.

Potter was easy to spot. The only student in the room apart from myself, he lay in the bed furthest from the door, an oil lantern lighting the pages of the book from which he was reading. Even in the yellow light of its flame, he looked disconcertingly pale, several large scratches and bruises marring the skin of his face and neck. Surrounded by the stark white of his sheets, he looked several years younger, his eyes large and shadowed beneath his glasses.

"Evening, Potter," I said finally, my voice echoing strangely in the overly large room.

"Draco?" As he pushed himself upright, his book fell forward, a few pages turning of their own accord so that when he returned to his reading it would take him a few moments to find where he had left off.

"They've got you doing homework already, have they?" I asked, my smile stiff and awkward.

"No." Hastily, he flipped the book shut, opening the drawer of his bedside table and dropping it inside.

The silence was far from comfortable as we stared at each other across the expanse of the room. Nervously, I picked at the sleeve of my robes, toying with the end of what promised to become a dangerously appealing loose thread. Now that I could see that Potter was far from dead, it was hard to remember why I had been so achingly desperate to visit him. From where I stood, nothing had changed. He was still the Gryffindor hero who had plagued my existence from my very first day at Hogwarts, regardless of the way his arms seemed white and fragile as they rested upon his sheets or of the shaky cut that ran at exact right angles to his scar.

"Why are you here?" His tone was accusatory. "Did you come to gloat?"

Frowning, I moved over to his bed and came to a halt at his side, feeling strangely clumsy in my own body. "I don't know why I came," I admitted. "I just... did."

"You must be disappointed." His eyes cold, he watched me carefully. "I bet you wish I'd died."

"For a moment, I thought you had." I wasn't sure what to do with my hands; they felt heavy and useless at my sides. Finally, I gestured towards the chair beside his bed. "Can I?"

"If you must."

I sat. "I don't, you know. Wish you’d died, that is."

"Really?" He didn't believe me. I could tell by the cynical turn to his lips and the edge to his voice.

"Really." Seated, I felt fractionally more at ease. "How are you feeling?"

"Stiff. Sore. Incredibly tired." Potter's expression was blank as he studied my features. "Amazed that you care..."

Nervously, I laughed, a stilted sound that echoed tauntingly from the stone walls. "You know how it is," I said quickly. "I can't lose my worst enemy. I wouldn't know what to do with myself with no one to plot and scheme against."

Potter's smile was thin and heart-breaking. "And here I was thinking you might actually be glad that I'm going to be okay."

Almost without thinking, I reached out to take his hand within my own, entangling his fingers in a possessive knot. Scraping my chair a little closer to his bed I smiled weakly down at him. "I am glad," I murmured, shaking my head in horrified disbelief. "I really am."

His smile stretched and became real. "Be careful, Draco," he teased. "Keep this up and I'll start to think you actually care."

"Don't push it." Tightening my grasp a little, I turned to inspect the numerous bottles and vials that cluttered the surface of Potter's bedside table. "So tell me," I said quickly, expertly changing the subject. "What exactly did they do to you in here?"

"Fixed a few broken bones, cured a concussion, stopped some internal bleeding..." He smiled as he took in the stunned expression on my face. "I'm pretty hardy, you know."

"Indestructible is the word, I believe." Shaking my head, I glared down at the thickly starched lines of his sheets. "I hope that Ravenclaw imbecile is expelled."

"He won't be." Potter shrugged. "Besides, it's my fault. I lost concentration. It would never have happened if I wasn't so thin-skinned." Sighing, he attempted a smile. "I take it you saw what they'd written."

"I saw."

A pause. "Did you mind?"

It was hard to order my reactions into any sort of coherent response. Since the accident, I had been trying to make sense of the tangle of thoughts and emotions that were running through my head with very little success. So much of what I felt around and in relation to Potter seemed subconscious; it was as though my every action was tainted by a thousand factors I wasn't yet aware of.

Nothing was easy when it involved him. Six months ago, I had known who Draco Malfoy was and understood his desires and ambitions. Now, however, everything seemed to have an inverse, a malformed reflection with no conceivable cause or reason. For each time I cursed Potter's existence, there was a surprisingly enjoyable conversation; for each glare, there was a tentative smile. It didn't matter how hard I tried to halt the movement, or how thickly I denied that there might be something buried deep beneath my hatred. For the first time in my life, I understood what it was like to feel out of control.

"Yes," I responded, after what seemed like an hour of contemplation. "I minded that I—that _we_ —were turned into a joke for the entire school's amusement. I mind the humiliation of everyone whispering about us behind our backs. I mind that Neville fucking Longbottom was the one to break the news. I mind that there was news to break in the first place. I mind—"

Potter laughed. "I get the picture - and I know exactly what you mean. My entire house is obsessed with the concept of the two of us. Hermione and Ron are horrified by the situation and the rest of them look at me as though they're not sure whether to be my friend or have me committed."

"So no change there," I teased.

"I think if I had kissed Lord Voldemort it would have been easier for them to comprehend," he continued, ignoring my comment.  "I mean, they couldn't care less about the fact that you're a boy." He grinned. "I mean, this is Gryffindor..."

"Yes, yes," I jumped in quickly. "You've already told me about the Gryffindor predisposition towards rampant homosexuality."

Smirking, he tugged me forward, pressing a quick kiss to my lips. "Have I told you about the Slytherin predisposition towards being complete and utter prats?"

"Many times."

Something about his smile caught within me. It seemed incomprehensible that only hours earlier I had spent the longest minute of my lifetime with no knowledge at all of whether Potter's fall had been fatal. Hating him had become such a vital part of my life that it was hard to imagine what things might have been like if he hadn't recovered. My breath tangling, a flood of relief surged throughout every inch of my body.

Moving my chair closer still, I leaned forward and returned his kiss, careful to keep the contact light, wary of the contusions that punctuated the skin of his face. As our lips parted, he smiled, squeezing my hand tightly as he reached around with his free arm to pull me closer, his lids slowly fading shut as his fingers twisted possessively in the hair at the back of my neck. This time, when we kissed, he controlled the intensity, pressing me ever closer as our tongues met then darted apart again in a brief and belated flirtation.

I couldn't move. I ached from the gentle familiarity of his lips, the tension of the day being smoothly eroded by the soft, repetitive touch of mouth on mouth. I remembered every quiet moan and the way his kisses would occasionally still, our lips remaining together in a gesture that should have appalled me with its sweetness instead of warming me and causing my hand to brush lightly against his cheeks, fascinated by the softness of his skin.

For a few minutes, we did nothing but kiss, strangely content in the primitive contact and in each other's company. When we drew apart, our hands remained linked tightly together, and even through the haze of my own denial I couldn't help but smile at the dazed expression on Potter's face.

"I've missed that," he said, shrugging sheepishly.

"I have to admit, I'd grown quite accustomed to it myself," I said.

Wrinkling his nose at me, he leaned forward, wincing slightly as the action aggravated one of his injuries. "I want to say something. But you're to promise that you won't get all... Slytherin... about it."

I laughed. "Promise."

"This..." He waved his free hand vaguely around at our surroundings. "This is good. This talking thing. And the kissing. When we're like this, I can almost begin to believe that you're a human being like the rest of us."

"I'm not sure I agree with the mediocrity of that statement," I grinned, "but go on."

"We're all or nothing, you and me. One moment, it's incredible, the next, we're not even speaking. I spend half my life despising you and the other half wondering when I'll get the chance to kiss you again. And each time we meet, I have no idea which way it's going to go." Dropping his hand, he rested it lightly upon our linked fingers, his thumb tracing lazy circles upon the back of my hand. "And I don't understand why it has to be like that."

"Because we're enemies?" I offered. "Gryffindor and Slytherin, Potter and Malfoy? It's always been like this."

"It _used_ to be like that," he corrected. "I didn't kiss you back in first year."

"I would have had Father kill you if you tried."

He nodded. "Exactly. It's different now."

I stared obstinately down at him. "How?"

"Because now we care."

My heartbeat became heavy and laboured within my chest as his words registered within my mind. I could feel every piece of my clothing upon my skin, while Potter's hand felt hard and imprisoning within my own. There was something about the calm confidence in his eyes that dried and tightened my throat, squeezing my breaths into shallow gasps.

"Admit it," he continued. "Go on. Tell me you give a damn whether I live or die. Say you care."

I frowned and looked away. My mouth opened unbidden, my lips thick and unfamiliar. "I care."

Potter smiled and raised our linked hands to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss to my knuckles. "I know. So do I."

I stared at him, unnerved by my unintentional revelation. His smile broadened.

"You look hot when you're terrified," he teased.

"Malfoys never get scared," I replied firmly, the quiver in my voice upsetting my argument a little.

"Everyone gets scared." His smile faded. "Even the famous Harry Potter."

Potter lowered our hands back to the crumpled sheets at his side. The sight of them fascinated me, the conflict of their shapes seeming suddenly to reflect every foolish aspect of what we had just admitted. Against the expanse of white, they looked isolated, the tangle of fingers almost insignificant against the uniformity of the whole.

Raising my gaze to his face, I found that he had been watching me, his mouth shaped by a sad smile. His lips parted, his chest rising as if he were about to make an irrevocable announcement, but none eventuated. Instead he looked away, his eyes dimming, and I pretended I hadn't seen.

 

*

 

The safe familiarity of the Slytherin common room felt oddly wrong as I slowly made my way back through the large expanse of doorway that marked its entrance. I had little idea of how long I had spent in the hospital wing, but the numbers within the room had thinned considerably, suggesting that the hour was now quite late. As I joined my friends, I wondered whether they could read anything in my expression, whether something in my eyes betrayed where I had been.

Pansy moved over to make room for me on the couch. Smiling my thanks, I sat, the crisp leather sinking beneath my weight. Watching me, she nodded, and then awaited the end of Crabbe's newest Muggle joke.

"Where have you been?" she asked finally, a hint of accusation in her tone. "People were saying you might have gone to visit Potter in the hospital wing."

"Why would I do that?" I muttered, my toes digging into the floor.

Goyle leaned towards me, his eyes slightly narrowed. "You seemed pretty upset at the game."

I shrugged, stretching my mouth into a forced smile. "Stomach ache."

Crabbe joined the assault. "You don't _get_ stomach aches."

Frowning, I looked at each of them in turn. "If I say I get stomach aches, then I get stomach aches, okay?"

Something was different, however. My power over them had slipped and I wasn't sure whether it was they who had changed or myself. They watched me with curiosity, their mouths mirroring identical expressions of concern, as my chest grew tight with trepidation. My control wavered, my fingers curling and tensing in my lap, my jaw solid and immovable. I felt unusually aware of every inch of my body, my skin heavy and my veins thick and slow. The light of the fire cast shadows across the room.

When I spoke again, my voice was smooth, each syllable clear and direct. "And, if I want to visit Harry Potter, then I may do so."

"You actually went there?" Goyle stared at me in disbelief.

I shrugged. "I was curious."

"Is he dead?" Crabbe asked hopefully.

"Nowhere near it."

"What does this mean?" Pansy's tone was cold, a sharp contrast to the bemused curiosity within Crabbe and Goyle's own voices. "Is he your _boyfriend_ now? Are you going to change houses so you can be with him all the time?"

"Don't be ridiculous." I scowled at her, annoyed by her reaction. "I'm a Slytherin, not some stupid Gryffindor."

"You're not acting it," she muttered, but her face grew lighter nonetheless.

We sat in silence for a while, the air between us heavy with silent conflict and unspoken accusations. I desired nothing more than to take back my admission, to return to the way things had always been and the Draco Malfoy I had always known. But control of the situation would not be won through excuses or denial. They expected it of me, confident of my shame. Power might only be regained through beating them at their own game, by taking their words and twisting them into something unexpected.

Finally Goyle spoke. "Why'd you visit Potter, Draco?" he asked. "You must have had some reason to do so."

Crabbe nodded, echoing Goyle's expression. "Go on, Draco," he teased, his eyes bright with amusement. "You can tell us. Are you and Harry dating?"

There was only one way to end the conversation, only one choice if I wanted to claim control. I blinked, smiled and looked him in the eye. "Yes."

The shadows stretched as my friends’ shock floated, almost tangible, between us. A feeling of dread overwhelmed my senses as the immensity of my lie began to register in my mind. Trapped, I felt my smile freeze. The charade began.


	11. The Tattered Charade

I have never been one to indulge in bouts of excessive self-deprecation. Although I wouldn’t describe myself as an extraordinarily happy person—after all, such blatant enjoyment of life is usually confined to the lower classes—I never succumbed to the depression that overwhelms so many people during their teenage years. There is a kind of weakness in despair, the sort of repetitive, morose fixation that bores one's associates and turns a promising individual into a tangle of woes and paranoias. I was always more interested in ruining other people's lives than in gradually eroding my own.

It’s easy to prevent yourself from gaining any pleasure from the day-to-day path of time. When I was young, I had a great uncle who would visit us every Christmas, laden with poorly chosen gifts and full of meandering speeches about the cruelty of the world. My mother would blush at her uncle's displays, apologising for his presence instead of smiling at the chance to revisit their childhood relationship. It was known that he had once had a wife, but that he had pushed her away over the years, gaining a perverse enjoyment out of the knowledge that his predictions had, in time, been realised. Once, my father, his cheeks reddened by his fourth sherry for the evening, told me that my great uncle was happier being sad. It took me years to understand.

There are different forms of self-destruction. The conscious actions of flinging yourself off a cliff or of carving your emotions into your skin cannot be ignored, but harm can also be implicit, hidden beneath sharp words or an opaque demeanour. Some people enjoy conflict too much to allow themselves the possibility of pleasure, finding security in hatred and isolation while their simpler counterparts shy from such extremes. It is possible to immerse yourself so deeply in pretence that the line between reality and falsehood becomes smudged and undefined. It is true that happiness can be found within a lie. Sometimes, however, happiness itself becomes the charade.

If I had desired an uncomplicated existence, I never would have suggested that Potter and I were together. In pretending that the incomprehensible had occurred, I changed the course of my year entirely and turned my friends' preconceptions to lies. Regaining control was difficult. Maintaining the charade proved to be easier than I would have liked.

 

*

 

My eyes were tight and squinting from lack of sleep when I made my way to the hospital wing the morning after I told my friends that Harry Potter and I were dating. I wasn't normally prone to insomnia, but my foolish words had echoed and magnified inside my mind for hours, making rest close to impossible. When I had finally managed a few short hours of sleep, my dreams had been feverish and incomprehensible, seeming to tire me more than if I had remained awake all night.

In daylight, the hospital wing was less foreboding, the shadowy gargoyles looking almost comical as I passed their jutting forms. In places, windows split the uniformity of the stone walls, rays of sunlight turning the floor into a checkerboard of beige and gold. On my skin, the warmth felt like an accusation. In defiance, I tugged my robes a little tighter about my body and stepped into Potter's room.

He looked a lot better than the previous evening, his knees raised beneath the covers so that he could rest his book upon the incline that they formed. His skin remained pale beneath the dark overhang of his fringe, but the shadows that had surrounded his eyes were now little more than echoes, easily overwhelmed by the stark black circles of his glasses. As he read, the fingers of one hand idly toyed with the edge of his uppermost blanket, twisting and folding the woollen fabric into uninterested shapes.

"I wasn't sure whether you'd still be here."

Surprised, he looked up at the sound of my voice, gaping unattractively for a moment before his mouth managed to form itself into a smile of welcome. "Madam Pomfrey said I can leave after lunch if I behave myself." His smile widened. "I'm not quite sure what she meant by that."

"Perhaps she didn't approve of my visit last night." Crossing the room, I sat beside his bed, scraping the chair backward a little so that my knees wouldn't brush against the mattress.

"She didn't mention it." Closing his book, Potter placed it on his bedside table before turning to regard me with undisguised curiosity. "I'm surprised you came again. Such... _thoughtfulness_... is rather out of character for you."

"There's something I need to tell you." I thought it best to be blunt. The circumstances of my visit didn't encourage pleasantries or small talk and Potter's eyes were already beginning to distract me from my purpose.

"You're taking it back." His tone was brisk but there was a slight tremble to his fingers when he ran them through his hair.

"What do you mean?"

"Last night. You want to pretend it didn't happen." Potter's lips were tight as he watched for my reaction. "It's okay. You're not the only one who can play that game."

I frowned. "Actually," I began. "It's gone a bit beyond that."

"I know," he muttered and I realised that we were talking about completely different things.

It was hard to despise him when he looked so fragile, even though I was confident that his injuries would cause no lasting damage. When I bent to press a brief kiss to his cheek, his skin was warm and soft beneath my lips, a strong contrast to the strength of the hand that clasped my shoulder roughly, pushing me away.

"What?" I asked, offended.

"Don't do me any favours."

Stunned, I stared openly at him, trying to make some sense out of his inconsistency. "I don't understand you," I said eventually. "One day you're all over me and the next..."

"Tell me, Draco." Using his legs to push himself into a more upright position, he leaned towards me, his eyes cold and unreadable. "How would you like me to act?"

"A bit of bloody continuity would be nice," I muttered, my hands clenching in mute frustration. "I mean, here I am, giving up some of my precious time to visit you in your sick bed—"

"Oh, don't be ridiculous!" he interjected, rolling his eyes. "We both know that you wouldn't be here if you didn't have some sort of ulterior motive. You're not the devoted type, Draco, so don't try to pretend that you are."

Annoyed, I glared impotently at him for a moment before looking away. Outside, the sun had risen above the trees, casting a thin, winter glow across the school grounds. From where I sat, I could make out little of the landscape, recognising trees and buildings through knowledge rather than true vision. If I were forced to spend any great period of time recuperating in the hospital wing, I would have preferred a more appealing vista, but I was fairly sure that the saintly Harry Potter would never complain about so minor an inconvenience.

When he spoke again, Potter's tone was a little softer. "Tell me the truth. Why are you here?"

"I said something stupid last night," I admitted, turning back to face him.

His smile was knowing and stiff with unhappiness. "I knew you'd take it back," he said, his expression confident. "I woke up this morning and wondered how long it'd take."

"It's not that."

"What, then?" His disbelief was obvious.

My throat felt swollen and bruised as my fingernails pressed arced indents into my palms. "I told my friends that we were together."

Potter shook his head. "I obviously misheard that."

"I wish you had done." Sighing, I avoided his gaze. "They were teasing me about coming to see you. It was the only way I could shut them up."

"Oh. That seems..." He paused for a moment, as though searching for the right word, finally shaking his head. “Your mind really does work in peculiar ways, Draco.”

“I couldn’t think of any other way to regain the upper hand.”

His expression was unreadable as his hands knotted above the bed covers. "Did it work?"

"I'm not sure they believed me."

"Do you blame them?" Potter asked, laughing nervously. "You can't expect to go from denial to acceptance without them questioning you a little."

"Maybe." I shrugged. "Regardless of what they think, though, it's said now. I can't back down without looking like a right idiot."

"What, and dating me doesn't make you look like an idiot in their eyes? God, if you were anybody else, Draco, I'd think your subconscious was talking."

"Don't flatter yourself, Potter." I straightened a crease in the bedclothes, frowning slightly. "It was a spur of the moment thing, that's all."

"Okay." Nodding, he caught and held my gaze, his eyes large and unblinking beneath his glasses. "We've established that it doesn't mean anything. The question is, what are you going to do now?"

Suddenly nervous, I ran a hand through my hair. "I, erm, was hoping you'd go along with it."

"To stop you losing face, right?" When I didn't reply, Potter continued. "What if I say no?"

"I haven't thought about that," I admitted.

Potter laughed bitterly. "You know me too well," he replied, his eyes cold. "Selfless, heroic Harry Potter, right?"

"Well..." I hadn't actually been thinking like that, but I didn't feel the need to correct him when his misconception seemed to be moving towards a favourable outcome for me.

"I'll do it," he said before I could continue. "After all, a charade's better than nothing." His smile twisted. Closing his eyes, Potter shook his head slightly, exhaling sharply as his brows lowered in frustration.

Leaning in, I kissed him. "Thank you."

"Draco Malfoy saying thank you? I must be hearing things." Wrapping a hand around the back of my neck, he dragged me down for another kiss, his fingers digging harshly into my flesh. His breath was hot against my cheek when he pulled away, his hand still encircling my neck possessively. "And here I was thinking you'd make a terrible boyfriend..."

"Hey!" I protested, an amused smile tweaking at the corners of my lips. "I'm a wonderful boyfriend. Just ask Pansy."

"Are you sure that's such a good idea?" His fingers slid upwards, twisting in the lowermost strands of my hair. "I can't see her being particularly happy about the idea of you dating me."

"No," I admitted. "But that's no reason to destroy my argument."

Smiling, he shook his head slowly, kissing me again before pushing me away. The cool air of the hospital wing felt damp and restrictive against the back of my neck when he released his grasp. "You're such a prat, Draco," he said fondly. "Now, don't you have classes to go to?"

Standing, I frowned down at him, suddenly feeling a little paranoid. "You're taking this surprisingly well," I said slowly, studying his face for any signs of trickery.

"Do I have any choice?" His smile froze.

"Since when have you taken any notice of anything that I say?" I replied flippantly, trying to dispel some of the tension that had seeped into the room.

"Since forever."

He rolled onto his side, turning his back to me and effectively ending the conversation. Recognising the gesture for the cue it was, I trailed one hand briefly over his shoulder, murmured my goodbyes and left. Walking towards the door, it was only through strength of will that I managed not to look back.

 

*

 

"Harry says that we're to be nice to you from now on." Granger slid into the chair next to me, letting her armful of textbooks drop onto the table with a loud bang. "He says that the two of you are dating and that we're just going to have to get used to you being around." Turning to face me, she regarded me with accusative eyes. "Frankly, I think this is all an elaborate scheme to hurt him, but I'm not going to go against Harry's wishes. Not when he's so set on bringing you into the Gryffindor fold."

"He's got his work cut out if he thinks he's going to turn me into a Gryffindor," I remarked, bemused, before turning back to my homework.

I mentally berated myself for choosing to study in the library, rather than in the safety of the Slytherin common room. Admittedly, my friends had been rather awkward around me since my little announcement and I had been spending as little time in their company as was possible when living in such close confines, but even Pansy's jealous glares had to be preferable to spending the evening with Hermione Granger.

"You know Harry." Granger shrugged. "He's always been a big supporter of lost causes."

"That would explain why he's friends with you." Smiling, I returned my attention to the Potions textbook that lay, open, in front of me.

"Funny," Hermione replied coldly. "I was thinking that it explained why he's dating you."

"Actually, I think that has more to do with my breathtaking good looks and sparkling personality," I corrected her. "But believe what you will."

For a moment, it looked as though she was about to throw the largest of her textbooks at me but, after a second of thin-lipped tension, the lines of her body relaxed and she regarded me with renewed calm. "There's no need to be so antagonistic," she said self-righteously. "If you and Harry are together, you're going to need to learn to put up with me being around."

"I don't have to enjoy it, though," I replied, unwilling to surrender fully to her logic, despite the fact that it did make sense. After all, if I were to convince my friends that Potter and I were truly together, I would need to spend a lot more time with him than when our only contact had been the brief, clandestine meetings that had somehow become a routine part of my life.

"So," she said suddenly, her voice splintering the air with its forced brightness. "What are you studying tonight?"

I stared at her for a moment, perplexed by the sudden change in her temperament. My voiceless question was answered, however, when a third stack of books was placed on the table beside me and Potter slid clumsily into the chair to my right. His hand lingered briefly and warmly on my shoulder in a gesture that was at once possessive and hesitant. Remembering the charade, I greeted him with a smile that was more genuine than it should have been. His own smile, in return, twisted deep within my chest.

"Hello Draco," he said quietly, his gaze flickering between my eyes and my mouth.

"Hello," I replied after a short pause. My throat hurt.

I could feel Hermione watching us, even as I remained caught within Potter's gaze. He raised a hand, briefly sliding one finger down the length of my cheek, his touch light and almost inquisitive. It was hard to know how to respond to such a public show of intimacy. I felt sure that every student in the library must be watching and awaiting my response and my skin prickled accusingly even after he had turned his attention to Hermione, greeting her fondly, if a little cautiously.

They spoke about schoolwork and common friends for a while, Potter leaning around me so that he could look Hermione in the eye. I could feel the warmth of his body even though we didn’t touch, the side of his face hovering only inches away from my lips. He smelled faintly of wood fires and I imagined that the scent would be stronger and more intoxicating if I buried my nose within his hair, my fingers curling around his neck in a blatant display of ownership.

Instead, however, I closed my eyes, tightening my fingers around the leather binding of the closest of my textbooks and reminding myself that our relationship was only make believe.

If he noticed my discomfort, he didn't comment upon it, instead smiling lazily at me once I felt confident enough to open my eyes. His skin was still a little too pale and there was something in the way that he moved that suggested he still hadn't recovered fully, but he looked a thousand times better than when I had first visited him in the hospital wing.

"How are you feeling?" I asked, unsure whether I did so for show or out of a true desire to hear his response.

"Better," he replied simply.

"Good."

Niceties were not my forte. I excelled at criticism and open mockery but, when it came to small talk, the words caught in my throat. It was hard to know what to say to Potter with our usual argumentative banter out of bounds. I was desperately aware of my audience, knowing that any hint of my true feelings would undoubtedly be noticed and remarked upon by whispering groups of students for days afterwards.

"So..." I quickly glanced down at the pile of books in front of Potter. "Potions, eh?"

Potter smiled in amusement. "Offering to tutor me, are you?"

"Never again." My own mouth twitched in an unwelcome reflection of his smile.

"I hope you're not trying to suggest that I was anything other than a perfect student." He prodded my own stack of textbooks. "Anyway, it could be worse. I could still be studying Divination like some people..."

"It pleases my mother," I said, shrugging. "What can I say?"

"Such devotion to family is admirable coming from a son of a Death Eater who's dating the person who defeated Voldemort." The cynicism in Granger's voice wasn't even thinly veiled. She kept her head lowered as she spoke, her eyes remaining focused on the impeccable scroll in front of her. "Personally, I would have thought that subject choices would fade into insignificance in the light of recent events."

"Hermione!" Potter said sharply.

"What? I'm not saying anything that isn't true."

"It's not really any of your business, though, is it?" he asked briskly. "Despite the fact that we've already discussed this a thousand times."

"I'm your best friend, Harry." Granger finally lifted her gaze from her scroll. "Your happiness is my business."

Potter paused a moment before replying. "I am happy," he said finally, flashing a quick glance in my direction. "Draco makes me happy. Is that so incredibly difficult for you to understand?"

I wriggled uncomfortably in my seat at the stubborn conviction that was so clear within his words. Granger glared openly at me, her façade of goodwill rapidly disintegrating, and I returned her gaze without blinking.

"I'm not sure I'll ever understand," she said quietly.

"You don't have to." Sick of listening to the tedious squabble of idiotic Gryffindors, I rolled my eyes and leaned backwards in my chair, lifting the front legs off the floor entirely so that I was balanced diagonally, one leg catching beneath the surface of the table for support. "I'm not dating you; I'm dating Potter." Frowning, I shook my head in disbelief. "I can't believe I just said that."

"Too right you're not dating Hermione." Ron Weasley slid into the empty chair on the other side of Granger.

I smiled. "You know how it is. Girl meets incredibly attractive boy... Girl falls for incredibly attractive boy... Girl leaves red-haired boyfriend for incredibly attractive boy…"

"Shut up, Malfoy." I could feel the anger in his stare, even if Granger's head prevented me from actually seeing it.

"I thought we were all friends now," I said, my face a picture of innocence.

Potter nudged me. "Draco."

Turning, my smile grew as I took in the warning look on Potter's face. "It's okay," I said lightly. "He's not allowed to punch me now that I'm dating his best friend."

"You're unbelievable." He shook his head, but his attempt at an expression of exasperation didn't reach as far as his eyes, which glinted with suppressed amusement.

"I know."

Potter took my hand, squeezing it lightly before entwining his fingers with my own. "Modest too," he said quietly, then turned his attention back to his friends. "Ron, I had to switch our Quidditch training time this week," he said, suddenly efficient. "One of the Ravenclaw Beaters has apparently pulled a muscle, so we'll be taking their slot tomorrow afternoon. I'll put a notice up in the common room tonight, but if you see anyone in the meantime, it'd be good if you could pass on the message."

"Harry!" Weasley hissed. "You shouldn't be saying that stuff with him here."

I laughed. "If by 'him' you mean me, I'm afraid I have better things to do than hide behind a tree taking notes while you give yourself splinters trying to look like a halfway decent Quidditch player."

Potter's grip on my hand grew a little tighter. I had the impression that the pressure didn't stem entirely from a sudden surge of affection. "Now, now, children. Play nicely." His voice was beginning to sound a little strained. "Seriously, this constant bickering is going to get very old very quickly."

"Of course, it's fine when it's you bickering with me," I teased him. "What's wrong? Are you scared that I'll run off with your lovely best friend?"

Playing up to the moment, I casually draped my free arm around Granger's neck. She squirmed beneath the weight, a nervous giggle escaping her lips in a peculiar, hiccuping rush of sound. To her left, Weasley growled quietly, jealousy emanating from him in heavy waves of hostility. I tightened my hold on his girlfriend, smirking as he turned away, his arms crossed tightly against his chest.

"She's too good for you, Weasley," I murmured insidiously. "First Potter, now Granger..."

The latter stiffened, but made no move to pull away from my one-armed embrace. Interesting, I thought, although not entirely unexpected... Potter, however, seemed less impressed by my intentions, squeezing my hand so tightly that I could feel the bones of his fingers pressing against mine, the unfamiliar sensation becoming almost painful as the seconds passed without any subsequent loosening of his grasp.

I was aware that I was making things more difficult for him than they had to be. It would have been so simple to make polite small talk with Weasley and to treat him as though I would treat any other non-Slytherin acquaintance that I might encounter in the halls. I felt fairly confident that Weasley would mould his attitude upon my own; if I had greeted him with platitudes, the moment would undoubtedly have passed without incident.

The thought of being friendly with Weasley and Granger, however, formed thorny tangles within my mind. I was capable of the pretence. That much was inescapable. After all, I had managed to convince my friends that Potter and I were together. Beyond that, anything became plausible, if not particularly desirable. If I wanted to, I could convince Potter's best friends that I had changed far beyond their most evangelistic of imaginations. A warm smile and a few words of love and they would have folded me into the Gryffindor world without so much as the briefest mention of the boy they'd known for six and a half years.

Weasley and Granger were flawed and morally erratic, but they were like Potter in that they were so desperate to find the good in anyone they encountered. I knew that I was redeemable in their eyes; I just had no interest in their hackneyed salvation. The corruption of the villain to the ways of the righteous is a fairy tale staple but inconsequential in real life. Good and evil have always been intrinsically intertwined, a fact that seemed to escape many of Potter's housemates.

It would have been easy to play the wretched convert and to hide beneath the façade of the relationship that they believed I had entered into. Potter would have known better, but he would have played along, grateful that I had chosen the smoothest of paths.

Then again, perhaps Potter knew me too well to trust anything but the most aggressive and unscrupulous of moves. The thought was sobering. It carried too many meanings and insinuations that cut deeper than I was willing to permit.

I refused to consider the possibility, instead sliding my arm from Granger's shoulders and tugging my hand out of Potter's grasp. "I think I've done enough study for the afternoon," I said, as I pushed my chair back from the table and gathered my books and scrolls into a manageable pile. "I'll leave you Gryffindors to talk about Quidditch strategy and why I'm so wrong for Potter."

Potter stood when I did. "You're not," he said simply, placing his hands on my shoulders in a gesture of possessiveness that should have been more disconcerting than it was.

I smiled, hating myself for it. "See you tomorrow, Potter. Don't forget to do your Potions homework."

"I won't."

When he kissed me, it wasn't unexpected. In all the great plays, an act ends with a kiss. We played our roles impeccably, his lips soft and distracting as they brushed against my own. I told myself that it was the charade that caused me to deepen the kiss and to wrap my arms tightly around him, pulling him in so close that I felt as though I could feel every contour of his chest as it pressed against my own. He sighed into my mouth, a sweet wave of breath, and I traced the lines of his teeth. For a brief moment, it became real.

I left the library in a deluge of stares and whispers. Weasley began to speak as soon as I was too far away to make out the words, the harsh irritability of his tone rising above the murmurs of my peers. As I reached the doorway, I quashed a sudden urge to bow, instead leaving without further dramatics and effectively causing more sensation than if I had made something more of the moment. Behind me, the chain of truth and gossip was already gathering links, growing exponentially even as I walked towards the Slytherin wing.

And so it began.

And so it grew.

And so it became known.

 

*

 

"Open your textbooks to page 243." Snape was not one to be moved by whispers or gossip, ignoring the furtive glances that were being cast in my direction as he stared menacingly around the Potions classroom. "I hope you have all completed the homework assignment from our last lesson. I will ask you to leave your scrolls on my desk on your way out—and I would like to think that the standard will be a significant improvement on last week's essays."

Turning, he stared coldly at Longbottom, before letting his gaze ooze across the room, glaring at each of his less-favoured students in turn. Finally his eyes fell upon Goyle, who was blithely sketching in the margins of his textbook, completely oblivious to Snape's attentions. "You're all meant to be graduating at the end of this year," he snapped, "and yet you still feel the need to act like 11-year-olds."

Normally, Snape's tirades were met with mild attention, more through the knowledge that a sudden question could be posed without any warning than any real interest in what he had to say. Today, however, there was an undulation of excited tension that ran through the rows of students in front of me. Snape's words might as well have been silent, ignored as they were in the need to twist in seats and surreptitiously steal glances at the drama that was being played out in the centre of the back row. Beside me, Potter's eyes were fixed on Snape's face. I pretended that I couldn't see the sharp indignation of Pansy's shoulders and tried to make sense of syllables that lost their meaning as soon as they sank into the air.

"I would like you to work with a partner," Snape droned. An indolent flick of his wand covered the front blackboard with almost-indecipherable white rows of spidery handwriting. "This is one of the more advanced potions we will encounter this year. Concentration and focus will be vital if you wish to avoid a visit to the hospital wing."

"Not again," Potter muttered, a twist of a smile at the corner of his lips.

If he heard, Snape chose not to comment on the interruption. "Well?" he asked icily. "Choose your partners, gather your ingredients and begin. You have 87 minutes."

I turned to look at Potter. "If you maim or disfigure me in any way, I will not be impressed."

He smiled. "I bet you say that to all the boys."

Shaking my head, I slid out from behind the desk. "I'll get the ingredients. You set up the cauldron. Surely even you can manage that."

I didn't wait for his response, instead moving over to where Crabbe and Goyle were struggling to light a fire under their own cauldron. "Careful with this one, boys," I warned them. "The firewort seeds look pretty harmless, but they'll explode if they get too hot."

"I reckon that's what Snape's aiming for," Goyle remarked dolefully.

"Just watch how long you leave it in for, and you'll be okay."

Pansy's fingers were warm and demanding as they slid around the curved angle of my hip. "You're a better teacher than Snape is," she said, smiling tightly as I turned to greet her arrival.

I shrugged. "I did my homework, that's all."

"It's more than that." Pansy's intentions were rarely opaque. Even as she spoke about schoolwork, her gaze flickered backward to where Potter awaited my return. Her hand remained frozen, a possessive curl above the fabric of my trousers. It was an assumption linked with a demand, solidified by the desperation in her eyes.

"Flatterer." Smiling, I pointed my wand at the base of Crabbe's cauldron and finally lit the flame that they required. "Don't forget to stir it anticlockwise," I said, looking at him and Goyle in turn so I could be sure that they were listening. "Follow the instructions and you'll be okay."

"You can show me how it's done." Pansy's smile cut into her words as she looped an arm around my waist, guiding me towards the table of ingredients at the front of the room.

To anyone else, she might have seemed erratic. Hours earlier, she had pouted at me in the Common Room, muttering about house betrayal into Millicent's willing ears. Her hair had fallen across her shoulders in irritable waves as she drew sharp emotions with the gestures of her hands. Now she was warm and affable and seemingly contrary. I knew Pansy better than anyone did, however, and both behaviours were aspects of a single goal. It would have been easier to digest if I hadn't understood the motive behind her moods.

"Potter and I are partners today," I said bluntly. "If you need help, just ask, but I can't guide you every step of the way."

She recoiled visibly. "Oh."

I gathered the necessary ingredients as she chewed words inside her head. "It's not going to go away, Pansy."

"I'll never understand it."

"Neither will I." I shrugged, balancing a sprig of rosemary on top of a jar stained red with firewort seeds.

"You said you'd tell me," she said quietly, her gaze fixed on the wooden table top in front of her.

"And I will, if there’s ever the need."

Turning, I didn’t wait for a reply, instead weaving my way through the clutter of desks and classmates until I found myself back at the desk I was sharing with Potter.

"Trouble?" he asked, one eyebrow quirking with bemusement.

"Pansy."

He watched as I laid our ingredients out beside his cauldron, arranging them into ordered rows. "Everyone's watching us, you know," he whispered, curving one hand against the side of his cheek in an orchestrated mime. "You would think that we were famous."

"We are."

I moved efficiently, counting seeds and measuring liquid, but the gazes and whispers were not lost on me. The tension in the classroom was impossible to ignore. Crabbe and Goyle alone seemed uninterested, concentrating instead on the fragile process of not blowing themselves up. Longbottom stared openly from the front row of desks, his puffy face red with anticipation, while a circle of Gryffindor girls giggled as they cast glances from the corners of their eyes.

I was glad to be spared the trial of Granger's disapproval, although her boyfriend seemed to feel obliged to glower twice as sternly in her absence. I realised with amusement that he had been forced to team up with Pansy, thanks to the defection of their respective usual partners. Weasley glared into his battered cauldron, recklessly adding the ingredients that Pansy proffered, while she watched me from beneath her eyelashes, grabbing herbs without looking, much less measuring the correct amounts.

"I don't think Ron likes your girlfriend very much," Potter remarked, struggling valiantly to keep a traitorous smile at bay.

"Ex-girlfriend," I corrected him.

"She doesn't see herself as that."

"Pansy is... Pansy."

"Very profound." Potter took the 13 firewort seeds I handed him and added them to the green liquid that he was stirring in slow, gelatinous circles. "Should I be jealous?"

"This isn't real," I reminded him.

"Not to you, perhaps."

I pretended not to hear, letting my gaze flit frenetically about the room. "Even Snape's watching us."

"Really?" Potter didn't lift his eyes from his cauldron. "He'll be furious at the thought of me seducing his favourite. I imagine he's plotting to fail me as we speak. Is he doing that twitchy thing with his jaw?"

"Not yet."

I might have spoken a little too loudly or a little too sharply, because Potter looked up from our potion and met my eyes as he said, "I would have thought you'd like the attention."

I was not sure I appreciated him being able to read so easily between my lines. "Adulation is all very well. Mockery is another thing entirely."

"I've dealt with my fair share of ridicule over the years," Potter replied mildly. "It dies down eventually."

"Don't you care that your housemates are all whispering behind your back?" I waved a shaky hand in Weasley's direction. "You Gryffindors are meant to be so damn loyal, but it's hard to believe that when your best friends think you're going insane."

"Oh, I'm always insane in someone's eyes. Yours, more often than not."

Annoyed at his flippancy, I glared at him, momentarily unmindful of our charade. "This is all a joke to you, Potter, isn't it?"

He froze mid-smile and it twisted and stagnated on his lips. "I wish it were."

We stared for a moment without moving. I felt like I was being watched by a million eyes, each of them accusing me of a manufactured truth. The attention was claustrophobic. It prickled my skin and tugged at the roots of my hair. Suddenly, oppressively, I felt like laughing.

Potter took my hand as my lips twitched and our potion turned a cloudy blue.

 

*

 

Choosing to be Potter's partner in Potions class had been a bad idea in more ways than one. Not only had I found myself the subject of a maddening collection of stares and ridicule, but I had also underestimated Potter's lack of ability in the subject. Due to a combination of carelessness and flirtation on his behalf, I had received my lowest mark ever for our potion—a nauseating B+. Potter, of course, had been delighted with the grade. I was significantly less impressed, but being teacher's pet had its occasional perks and, after some convincing, Snape had eventually agreed to my writing eight lines on the conductive properties of Firewort seeds for extra credit. It was bad enough that Potter was steadily eroding my reputation without him destroying my marks as well.

The Great Hall looked to be deserted when I walked through its double doors. It was not surprising, given that most of my fellow students were crowded into the Quidditch stands, watching an exhibition match between two of the London teams, while the rest were in Hogsmeade for the afternoon, filling themselves with butterbeer. I took a seat towards the foot of one long table and arranged my texts, quills and scroll in front of me, finding the appropriate chapter in the first book and opening the scroll, ready to begin writing.

Just as I was mentally composing my first sentence, my attention was claimed by a loud call from the far end of the hall.

"Malfoy! Over here!"

Twitching slightly at the distraction, I looked up. By squinting slightly, I managed to identify the unmistakable shape of Hermione Granger's hair at the head of the table next to mine. Not wanting to waste my afternoon on small talk with Potter's annoying friends, I merely raised a hand in a brief wave and arranged my mouth in what I hoped would pass for an indulging smile. As soon as I returned my gaze to my scroll, however, she spoke again.

"Don't be so antisocial! Why don't you join me?"

I frowned. Since when did Granger actively seek out my company? I fleetingly contemplated telling her exactly why I'd rather lick the warts on Longbottom's toad than join her for a study date, before discarding the option as being too detrimental to the success of my charade. Instead, I tried to show my lack of enthusiasm through a curt shrug of the shoulders. When Granger didn't respond, I allowed myself to bathe in the adrenaline rush of victory for a moment before turning back to my books.

My relief was short lived, however. Just as I was finally about to put quill to paper, there was a flurry of footsteps and a large mound of leather-bound books was cast carelessly onto the table beside me.

As I dug my scroll out from beneath a large volume of astronomical diagrams, Granger slid into the chair to my right. "You Slytherins are a lazy lot, aren't you?" she said mildly, attempting to sort the pile of books into some kind of order.

I snatched at one of my textbooks, before she could tidy it into a stack of hers. "I merely thought that we would be more efficient on opposite sides of the room."

She rolled her eyes. "You might be able to fool Harry, Malfoy, but I haven't mocked and despised you for six and a half years without picking up at least a passing knowledge of your character."

I blinked. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"If you're going to lie, at least try to be a little more convincing. Make it believable for a change." She picked up a quill and waved it towards me in an attempt to emphasise her point. "I mean, it's perfectly obvious that you just didn't want to sit with me, so why bother trying to engineer some transparent deception?"

"I'm a Malfoy," I snapped. "That's what Malfoys do."

Granger laughed, then bit her lip when she realised that I hadn't been joking. "So is that what this whole thing with Harry is, then? One giant deception?"

"What benefit could I possibly gain from that?" I quickly responded.

"I haven't worked that out yet." She watched me carefully. "But I know you'll end up hurting him, one way or another."

"Surely he could just as easily hurt me."

"No, I don't think so."

"What?" I glared at her. "Am I somehow incapable of emotion because I'm in a different school house to you?"

She raised an eyebrow patronisingly at me. "The house that you're in has nothing to do with it. You'd be just as much of a git if you were in Gryffindor or Hufflepuff."

"Look who's talking," I mumbled under my breath.

"No," she went on, either not hearing me, or choosing to ignore my words, "what I meant was that I'm pretty sure Harry's incapable of doing anything to hurt you. I don't know what you're getting out of this, but I do know one thing. If it's all just some big game to you, then you're the only one who's playing. Harry's in this for real."

I fussed with the arrangement of my books in order to distract myself from the quickened beating of my heart. "Yeah, well, he wouldn't be dating me otherwise, would he?"

She shrugged. "He might just have been in it for the sex."

"We're not having sex," I snapped, my jaw twitching. "No sex. We're not doing that. At all."

"No? How very... _moral_... of you, Malfoy." She leaned forward a little, her eyes staring straight into my own. "Of course, I doubt abstinence was your decision; it's not exactly your style. I'm surprised Harry's been so restrained, though. I mean, if I were dating you, I'd have been dragging you into bed long before now."

I returned her gaze, frowning as I spoke. "What happened to hating me, Granger?"

"Whether I like you or not has nothing to do with it. I'm just saying that you're not physically repulsive to me."

"So that's why you're here, is it? You certainly didn't seem very pleased about my presence the last time we met." I watched her through narrowed eyes. "Excuse me for being suspicious, but I'd like to know why the sudden change of heart."

She frowned. "Can't a girl choose to sit with her best friend's boyfriend without an issue being made of it?"

"Not when they've been enemies for nigh on seven years," I replied calmly.

"Perhaps I've decided to give you a second chance," she said, avoiding my gaze.

"And perhaps not." I leaned back in my chair, studying her expression carefully. "Why aren't you at the Quidditch match, anyway? Surely Weasley would have insisted that you join him in screaming like a lunatic in the stands."

Granger's lips thinned. "We had an argument," she said tightly.

"Oh," I said, unable to keep a tone of insinuation out of my voice.

"It's nothing," she snapped. "Sometimes couples argue, Malfoy. It's perfectly natural, as I'm sure you'll soon discover if you and Harry stay together for more than a week. It doesn't necessarily mean anything."

"What did you argue about?" I persisted, biting my lip in an attempt to prevent a smirk from forming on my face.

She reddened slightly. "None of your business."

I paused for a moment to think, then stiffened as a sudden realisation took hold. "Wait a minute," I said slowly. "You didn't fight about me did you?"

"Why would we fight about you?" she countered, her gaze remaining firmly directed at the table top in front of her.

"Why indeed." Shaking my head, I turned back to my books, pulling the scroll open once more and readying my quill.

I managed to write a couple of sentences before she spoke again. The first book's discussion about the properties of Firewort was mind numbingly boring and it was easy to immerse myself in the tedium of its words. I had begun to slip into a pleasant lull of false security when the warm pressure of Granger's hand on my shoulder shot me straight back into harsh reality.

"I meant what I said before, you know," she said softly, leaning forward so that she could murmur the words directly into my ear. "As despicable as you are as a human being, there is something quite attractive about you. Harry's a fool to date you, but I'm starting to understand the fascination a little. In a purely physical sense, of course."

For a moment, I was too stunned to do anything but blink at her. Sure, Granger had proved herself susceptible to my flirting in the past, but I had never expected her to do anything about it. I'm sure every Hogwarts student (and the less scrupulous of our teachers) had fallen victim to my looks and talent at some time or another, regardless of their house alignment or sexual orientation, but I wouldn't have picked Granger as one of the few to admit it.

It was an interesting turn of events. Unknowingly—or perhaps even mindfully—Granger had handed me the perfect weapon to use against Potter. No matter how much he might try to act unaffected, it would have to hurt him if I took it upon myself to snog one of his best friends. Regardless of the extent of his feelings for me, he couldn't fail to be wounded by Granger's betrayal, both of him and of her supposed boyfriend, Weasley.

I could picture his face already: his eyes wide, his lower lip trembling and his fringe falling unnoticed over his brows. It would destroy him. I would be victorious and this tattered charade could end. I would never have to so much as see him again, let alone kiss him in the hallways or walk from Potions class hand in hand.

I swallowed heavily, rubbing the back of my neck with the palm of one hand. My throat felt full.

"Piss off, Granger," I snapped, my voice tight. "I'm taken, remember?"

Her lips tightened briefly, before being stretched into a garish smile. "We both know you're just playing with him, Malfoy. And it's not like he has to find out."

"What about the weasel?"

She shrugged. "I told you. We're fighting. And besides, we've never discussed being exclusive." She tightened her grip on my shoulder a little, her thumb moving in firm circles as it pressed into my flesh. "So... What do you say?"

"Perhaps not." I prised her fingers from my shoulder.

She didn’t respond.

"Obviously there's something going on inside your head that I don't know about, but I think dating one Gryffindor is bad enough for this lifetime. My reputation would never recover if I took it upon myself to make my way through the entire house." Firmly, I placed her hand back on the top of the table. "No thank you. I'll stick to snogging the one loser, if you don't mind."

“Are you so sure about that?” There was something I didn’t recognise in her eyes. I could hear the doors to the Great Hall open just as she leaned in closer, replacing her hand on my shoulder, as though she were about to kiss me despite my protests.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Squirming out of Granger's grasp, I turned towards the doorway, already knowing what I would see. I had spent entirely too much time with Potter over the last six months to be unable to recognise his voice. Behind me, Granger was silent, presumably wracked with guilt.

"Yeah, Granger," I said, turning to look at her. "What are you doing?"

Potter's hand was rough around the top of my arm. He could move quickly when he wanted to, and seemingly without making a sound. "Don't try to shift the blame, Draco," he said coolly, twisting me around so that he could look me in the eye. "We both know who's at fault here."

My mouth dropped open. "Now, wait a minute..."

"Are you okay, Hermione?" he asked quietly, pausing only briefly for her nod before turning back to me. "God, Draco, I thought even you were above this sort of thing. My best friend?" He shook his head, his jaw clenching compulsively. "Fuck you. Just... fuck you."

White-faced, he glared at me for another couple of seconds before spinning jerkily on the spot and stalking stiffly from the room.

Turning, I looked Granger in the eyes. "Give me the password to the Gryffindor area."

She returned my gaze without speaking, her eyes narrowed slightly as though she were assessing my reaction.

"Do you want me to fix this or not?" I snapped.

"It's 'hippogriff'," she said. I must have been imagining the look of respect in her eyes.

I nodded and pushed back my chair. "You'd just better hope he listens to me," I said, glaring at her for a moment longer before turning and walking from the room.

 

*

 

I found Potter in his dormitory, sitting on one of the wide stone windowsills with his knees drawn up to his chin. He didn't look up when I entered the room, instead continuing to stare out through the glass at the snow-covered grounds below.

"Potter?" I said quietly, strangely reluctant to disturb the silence.

"How did you get in here?" he asked flatly in response, still motionless save for the slight movement of his lips.

"Granger told me the password. One of your first years looked like he wanted to tell me off when he saw me coming up here, but I just pointed to my prefect badge and he thought better of it." I moved over to join Potter at the window, pushing his legs to one side so that there was room for me to pull myself up onto the sill. "I hate to sound like a cliché, but it wasn't what it looked like."

Still refusing to look at me, he stared steadfastly at a point about half a foot beyond my head. "It looked a lot like you were about to kiss my best friend."

I shook my head. "See, that's where the misunderstanding part of things kicks in. I'm completely innocent in all this."

"You? Innocent?" He finally met my gaze, his eyes wide with hurt amusement. "You weren't even born innocent, Draco."

"Hey, just because you don't like my father's line of work..."

"This has absolutely nothing to do with your father," he snapped. "Hell, if I had a problem with your family tree, I think it would have become an issue long before now. Sometime before I fell for you, presumably."

Thrown by his admission, I blinked several times before speaking. "You fell for me?" I repeated, quietly.

"Apparently I'm a sucker for boys who kiss my best friends."

I smirked at him. "That had better not mean you've been dating Weasley behind my back. I mean, cheating's one thing, but cheating on me with a Weasley..."

He glared at me. "We're not really dating, remember. It'd only be cheating if you and I were really together."

My mouth dropped open involuntarily. "You mean you _are_ dating Weasley?" My stomach twisted. "That's disgusting!"

Potter closed his eyes, his chest heaving as he drew a deep breath before replying. "No. I'm not dating Ron. Ron is dating Hermione and I'm pretending to date you. It's all very simple. At least, it was until you felt the need to kiss Hermione."

"I didn't kiss her."

"I'm not blind, Draco. To your faults, maybe, but not to things like this. I know what I saw."

"I'm telling the truth!" I protested. "If you don't believe me, well, that's your choice I guess, but it doesn't make me a liar. Not this time, anyway. You're mad at the wrong person. I didn't kiss Granger. And she didn’t kiss me either, although I’m pretty sure she wanted to. I told her I was taken, but she didn’t seem to care."

He stared at me in disbelief. "Why would Hermione want to kiss you?"

"Because I'm irresistible, of course."

"Contrary to your own belief, it is very easy to resist you, Draco."

I smirked at him. "You don't seem to be much good at it."

He sighed and turned back to the window. "I'm well aware of that."

"Then why don't you believe me?" I nudged him with my foot. "Come on, Potter. What could I possibly gain from kissing Granger?"

"You could hurt me," he said simply, raising one finger to draw a jagged lightning bolt in the fog his breath was forming on the glass.

I wrinkled my nose. I couldn't exactly deny that one. "But I'd have to kiss Granger to do so. Not even I’m that desperate to hurt you."

"I'm sure you could manage. After all, you're doing a pretty good job of pretending you're in love with me."

I held up a hand. "Dating. I'm pretending I'm dating you," I quickly corrected him. "I never said anything about love."

"No. You didn't." He roughly wiped away the lightning bolt with the flat of his hand.

"Besides, as I told her, dating one Gryffindor's bad enough for my reputation. I have no intention of making a habit of it."

"Surely making a fool out of me would offset the shame a little," he snapped, turning to glare at me.

"I doubt anyone else would see it that way."

"And that's the important thing, is it? What other people think?" He sighed, his shoulders dropping a little. "I guess I should just be glad that I'm not really dating you. I mean, I suppose it’s your right in a way, as much as I hate to admit it. It's not really cheating if we're not really together."

"Well, I'm glad too," I snapped, "because you'd be a terrible boyfriend."

He gaped at me. "Me? _I'd_ be a bad boyfriend?"

"Yes. You." I forced his mouth shut with my hand. "You're the one who refuses to believe a single word I say. Never mind that Granger and Weasley were perfectly happy to lie to you for months when it came to their being together. That doesn't matter. You'd still prefer to believe their word over mine, even when they haven't even denied that it was their fault."

"She didn't have the chance to deny it," he muttered, looking away.

"Irrelevant."

"Maybe." His voice rose as he turned back towards me, his eyes dark and his jaw tight. "But I don't see why I should trust you of all people. You're the one who's always going on about how much you hate me and how we're the worst enemies the wizarding world has ever seen. Tell me: why is it that I should believe that it was my best friend who tried to hurt me and not you?"

I leaned forward, holding his gaze. "Because it's true."

He stared at me for a moment and then, suddenly, it was as though his anger simply disappeared. The lines of his face became smooth, his eyes lightened and his hands unclenched. Leaning back against the side of the window, he watched me silently, one hand pressed casually against the glass.

"It's true," I said again, uncomfortable with the silence.

Potter nodded. "I know it is."

Surprised, I examined his face for any sign that he might be trying to trick me into an admission of guilt. "What—you're saying that you believe me?"

"I am."

"Why?" I demanded, running a hand through my hair. "Why do you believe me?"

Sighing, he turned to stare out the window, his eyes moving jerkily as he followed the path of a couple of Ravenclaws who were walking towards the Quidditch stands. "Because I trust you. Because I know you better than you think I do. And because you've no reason to lie about a thing like this." Turning back to me, he took my hand, his own fingers cold and slightly damp from where they had been pressed against the frosty glass. "If you'd wanted to hurt me, you'd be crowing with victory right now, not sitting here, trying to persuade me that you're not at fault."

"But Granger—"

"Is unreliable," he finished.

"And... and you believe me?"

He nodded, leaning in to brush his lips softly against my own. The contact sent an electric shiver sparking throughout my body and I curled a hand around the back of his neck so that I could deepen the kiss, pulling him as close as the window sill would allow and possessively tangling my fingers in his hair. He squeezed my other hand as we kissed, an almost compulsive rhythm, and moaned quietly when I finally pulled away.

"Window..." I panted, jerking my head to emphasise my point. "People might... see us..."

He stared at me, amused. "They already think we're dating each other," he laughed. "I'm sure they understand that boyfriends kiss from time to time."

"They don't have to think I like it, though," I muttered petulantly, dropping to the floor and pulling him down after me.

"Do you?" His smile showed no sign of faltering.

"It's better than kissing Granger, I guess," I muttered begrudgingly, and pulled him over to his bed.

Blinking, he sat down beside me, biting his lower lip.

"What's wrong?" I asked, frowning. "Are you only interested in kissing me in public places?"

"That's not it." He picked at the blanket on the edge of his bed. "It's just... this is my bedroom, you know."

"I know." I shook my head. "What I don't know is what the hell you're on about, Potter."

"Well, it makes things a bit different," he said quietly, his voice almost a whisper.

"What do you m—" I began, but then my brain finally kicked in and I realised what he was talking about. "Oh."

"Yes," he agreed, avoiding my gaze.

Frowning, I stretched back against the pillows, moving over a little so that there would be a decent space between us. He watched me, his face blank and his fingers drawing circles in the matted wool of the blanket.

"What are you going to do about Granger?" I asked finally, when the silence began to feel like it was settling in suffocating mounds around us.

"I don't know."

"If you wanted, my father could probably arrange something."

"No," he said firmly, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. "I'm sure we'll be able to sort this out without me resorting to favours from Death Eaters. And besides—I doubt your father would be particularly fond of the idea of you begging favours for me."

I forced a smile onto my own face. "He wouldn't mind."

Potter watched me unblinkingly. "Now you _are_ lying," he said quietly, before rearranging his limbs so that he was stretched out on his side beside me.

"Possibly," I admitted, my gaze dropping as he took my hand.

"I think I quite like you lying about things like that." Wriggling a little closer, Potter spoke with his mouth a bare inch away from mine. "But then again, I'm a fool."

We shared breath. Potter dropped my hand and moved to slide his fingers over the curve of my hip, drawing me closer and pressing warmth through the fabric of my trousers. Shivering, I raised my own hand to his chest, meaning to push him away but somehow grabbing his tie instead, forming a possessive fist around the red and gold stripes and using it to tug his mouth towards mine.

"You're _my_ fool," I murmured against his mouth and he sighed softly as he returned my kiss, his fingers tracing gentle loops against my hip.

"Yes," he whispered, pressing against me, one leg hooking over mine as he deepened the kiss. "And you're mine."

And somehow, instead of protesting and pulling away, I found myself kissing him time and time again, my fingers tracing his cheek and his jawline before drifting down to map the contours of his neck. He moaned, using his leg to pull me even closer, and bit softly at the swell of my lower lip as our bodies came into full contact, our chests bumping as we both struggled to draw breath and his erection pressing hard and insistent against my own.

I gasped and he silenced me with another kiss, sliding maddeningly within my clutching embrace. His hand slid from my hip and reached lower, curving around my arse in a way that was somehow curious, demanding and reverent, all at the same time. The sound of my own breathing was harsh and loud within my ears and it was as though my body was moving without being commanded to do so, my hips jerking erratically as Potter thrust against me, hard and heated and surprisingly fluid.

His teeth marked my neck, only to be replaced by soft and taunting lips, his hands sliding beneath the layers of my jumper and school shirt and tracing maddening patterns on my stomach as my muscles twitched with the need for laughter and release. He reached higher, bunching the fabric and darting tentative fingers across one nipple, only to return when the arch of my back and the huff of my breath gave away the sharp twinge of pleasure that arced through my body at his touch.

I wove my fingers together around the back of his neck, pulling his lips back to my own, and he acquiesced willingly, breathing my name in between kisses as he rolled me onto my back. Potter was heavy above me as he tangled his fingers with mine, thrusting against me feverishly as he met my gaze with hooded eyes. I could feel every inch of my body, tense and shrieking with guilty sensation. His lips were swollen and red upon my own, his breath hot and fractured against my cheek. With one hand, he reached between us, his palm brushing maddeningly against my stomach before pushing tentatively against me through the fabric of my trousers. I jerked in surprise and mute appreciation and he broke our kiss to smile at me, his words slowly emerging from the haze of my mind.

"...Love you..."

I stiffened, my heart pounding jarringly within my chest, and pulled away. The words seemed to float in the air around us, echoing and multiplying exponentially with every breath. The pounding of my heart was like a drumroll signifying the raising of an executioner's axe. My lips burned.

"I can't do this," I muttered, straightening my clothes as I stood and running my fingers through my hair in an attempt to flatten it.

Potter watched me with dull eyes.

"I'm sorry," I whispered almost silently, and turned my back before I could change my mind.

"I understand," he said, his voice cracked and wavering, and my breath caught in my throat as I moved towards the door.

I shook my head, unable to look at him. "I don't think you do," I replied, reaching up to press one hand against my lips.

"You'd be surprised," he said, as I closed the door.

 

*

 

The following morning, my father's owl dropped a letter into my lap while I was eating breakfast.

"Who's it from?" Millicent demanded from across the table, uncurling her copy of the Daily Prophet.

Ignoring her, I broke the green wax seal and unfolded the parchment. There were only nine words written on the page. _What's this I hear about you and Harry Potter?_ Frowning, I scrunched the letter into a crumpled ball and placed it beside my plate.

"Your father?" Goyle asked from his seat to my right.

I nodded. "Nothing important."

Pansy delicately pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. "I don't suppose he's too happy about you dating Potter," she said, her voice soft and her gaze sharp.

"I really wouldn't know."

She smiled, watching me through narrowed eyes. "I'm sure you know best, Draco. After all, it's not as though your father's ever been particularly concerned about continuing the Malfoy line..."

I neatly crossed my knife and fork and pushed my chair back from the table. "Thank you for your input, Pansy," I said, arranging my features into a fake smile of my own. "Next time I need to find out anything about my father, I'll know who to come to."

Standing, I clapped Crabbe and Goyle on the back before retrieving my letter from the table and shoving it deep inside my pocket. "See you in class," I muttered, straightening my robes and walking stiffly from the room.

 

*

 

Weasley accosted me as I left the Great Hall, confirming that it was not going to be one of the better days of my existence. Looping a hand in the folds of my robes, he dragged me into a darkened classroom, clapping his other hand over my mouth to ensure that I didn't speak. Once inside, he closed and locked the door behind us, pushing me over to one of the desks and gesturing for me to stay silent while he lit the wall torches, allowing us to see.

"What's all this in aid of?" I asked, already tired of his cloak and dagger routine.

"I want to talk to you," he said, rather unnecessarily, and took a seat at the desk next to my own.

"If this is about Granger, I'm not interested." I checked my seat for dust before sliding into it.

He frowned. "Why would it be about Hermione?"

So the weasel hadn't been informed about the previous day's events. I bit back a laugh and settled for smirking knowingly at him instead. "No reason."

Weasley paused for a moment, obviously confused. His right leg jiggled nervously, causing the legs of his desk to quiver rhythmically with the movement. Watching him with amusement, I could see that his knuckles were white, his fingers curling tightly around the edge of the wood to either side of his thighs. In the light of the torches, his hair became a sickly shade of burnt orange, throwing the pallor of his face into garish relief. At that moment, the only thing that seemed at all strange about Granger making a pass at me was the fact that she hadn't done so earlier.

"I want to talk about Harry," he said finally, his bewildered frown shifting and settling into a generic glare. "Hermione has nothing to do with it."

I nodded and smiled benignly at him. "If you say so."

He leaned forward. "Why don't you just leave him alone, Malfoy?"

"Who? Potter?" I returned his gaze with wide eyes, arranging my features into my best look of innocence.

"You've had your fun," he continued, ignoring me, "now leave him alone."

"I don't know what you're talking about." I leaned forward myself, mirroring his posture. "Potter and I are dating. Why should I leave him alone?"

"Dating?" he spluttered, shaking his head. "You'll need to do a hell of a lot more than hold Harry's hand in Potions class for me to believe that, Malfoy. You've spent your entire time at Hogwarts trying to get him into trouble and now you suddenly want me to believe that you're in love with him?"

Something deep inside me twisted for a moment and I had to swallow deeply before I could trust myself to speak. "I'm not in love with him," I snapped. "For fuck's sake, what's the current obsession with love?"

"Obsession?" Weasley stared at me, his brows slightly raised.

"First Potter and now you. Next thing I know, I'll have Dumbledore calling me into his office so that we can have a little chat about the finer points of romance." I shuddered a little at the thought. "Ew."

Weasley appeared to be unmoved by my words, continuing as though I hadn't spoken at all. "I know you were in the Gryffindor area yesterday. When we got back from the Quidditch match it was all the first years could talk about."

I raised an eyebrow at him. "It's not exactly a secret, Weasley. Can't a guy visit his boyfriend without it becoming the crime of the century?"

"You did something to him."

I forced myself to keep my expression even. "Why do you say that?"

"Because he was upset!"

I could tell that Weasley was bare seconds away from losing it entirely. His entire body seemed to be aglow with frenetic tension, his hands clenching and unclenching around the wood of the desktop.

Not for the first time, it struck me that the famous Gryffindor loyalty was something of an ineffective trait without any decent means of pursuing it. Weasley would have scoffed openly at the thought of Crabbe and Goyle providing a superior form of friendship than that offered to Potter by him and Granger, but at least my friends understood the value of a good threat every now and again, instead of merely resorting to weak chastisement if someone did me wrong.

It was hard to see what Weasley hoped to gain from the exercise. Surely he didn't believe that he, of all people, would be able to change my mind. If— _when_ —I ended the charade, it would be of my own volition, not because one of Potter's little friends had decided to give me a brief talk on the difference between right and wrong. It would have been laughable if I hadn't had so many other things on my mind.

"I'm not the sole cause of all the world's evils, you know." I shrugged, pushing a stray lock of hair out of my eyes. "Perhaps he got a bad mark or something."

"Doesn't it seem like quite a large coincidence that he was upset on the very same night you were in his dormitory?" Weasley asked.

"Nothing happened," I said quickly. "Just because we were alone in there, it doesn't mean that we did anything."

Weasley's eyes narrowed. "No?"

"No," I snapped. "Nothing happened. We talked, that's all."

Weasley watched me in silence for a while before finally replying. "Of course. Because Draco Malfoy definitely isn't gay, regardless of the fact that he's supposedly dating a boy."

I glared at him, unable, for once, to think of a witty comeback.

"My point exactly," Weasley went on, interpreting my silence as accord. "You're so insistent about the fact that you and Harry are supposed to be dating, but God forbid anyone should suggest that you might actually have feelings for him."

"You don't have to have feelings for someone to date them," I argued.

"It is the usual practice."

"Well, we can't all have the sort of perfect relationship that you and Granger have." I smiled sweetly at him. "It must be wonderful to know that your girlfriend is so... trustworthy."

Weasley blinked and recoiled slightly. "You don't know what you're talking about, Malfoy," he snapped.

"And you don't know what you're talking about when it comes to me and Potter." I crossed my arms, feeling rather proud of my reasoning.

"I know that you're not good for him."

I rolled my eyes. "Come on, weasel. You're going to have to do better than that. Since Potter and I started spending time together, he's getting better marks in Potions and beginning to actually grow himself a backbone where you and Granger are concerned. Where's the harm in that?"

"You're never going to be what he deserves," Weasley argued. "You're never going to love him like he deserves."

"You seem to know a lot about my capacity for love," I replied, trying to keep my tone flippant despite the tight set of my jaw.

"Okay, then." Weasley looked distinctly unimpressed. "Tell me you love him and I'll be quiet. Go on!"

Frowning, I turned away.

"Thought so." Weasley stood, his feet shuffling into my peripheral vision. "Leave him alone, Malfoy. He'll be happier without you. Harry was just fine before you started messing with his head."

"What makes you think he's so unhappy?" My fingers picked at a small thread that had come loose from the hem of my robes.

"Because I saw how he was last night. I don't know what you said to him, Malfoy, but whatever it was, it did the job."

"I didn't say anything," I said quietly. "He did."

If Weasley heard my words, he gave no indication of it, instead walking across to the window and staring out through the glass. The edges of the panes were decorated with dusty spider webs, which fluttered slightly, caught by an invisible draught.

"I don't know what your plan is, Malfoy," he said softly, keeping his back towards me, "but if you're trying to break Harry's heart, you're doing a bloody good job of it."

I didn't speak. I wasn't entirely sure what I felt, let alone what I wanted to say. The silence stretched until it became uncomfortable, settling thickly around us and slowly filling the room. I could hear the soft tide of my own breath and the tap of Weasley's fingers against the windowpane.

"If you feel anything for Harry," he said finally, when the pause became so heavy that it was threatening to suffocate us, "if you care about him at all, then forget this ridiculous charade. It's over, Malfoy. You win. Don't make it any worse."

"You don't know what you're talking about." My voice wavered a little as I spoke.

"I know Harry," he replied, turning to look at me from across the room. "And I know that you're breaking his heart."

He lifted his wand and pointed it towards the door. "Alohomora," he muttered, and the lock clicked open.

I stood and brushed the creases out of my robes before opening the door, pausing to look back at Weasley before stepping out into the hallway. He met my gaze and held it boldly, showing no sign of looking away. Nodding slightly, I turned, closing the door behind me.

 

*

 

The courtyard was dark and silent. Persephone perched in the branches of a nearby tree, puffing out her feathers for warmth as I nervously paced back and forth on the cobblestones below. It was close to full moon, but the snow clouds blocked out all but a fraction of the moon's light and I could see very little beyond the faint circle of light that glowed from the end of my wand.

I heard Potter's footsteps before I saw him. Turning, I watched as he slowly emerged from the cover of his invisibility cloak, forcing a weak smile onto my face as he took a step towards me, his own expression unreadable.

"I wasn't sure whether you were still speaking to me," he said bluntly, folding his cloak and looping it over the nearest branch. Persephone eyed it suspiciously for a moment before ruffling her feathers and looking away.

I shrugged. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"Your note didn't say why you wanted me to come here." He smiled wryly. "Surely it would have been a lot warmer if we met somewhere inside."

"I didn't want anyone to see us."

His smile froze. "It's back to that again, is it? Let me guess: that's why we're here."

I looked away, unable to hold his gaze. "Not exactly."

"What, then?" He moved closer, reaching out to wrap a hand around the top of my arm and gently turning me so that I couldn't help but meet his eyes. "Is it about what we did yesterday?" His cheeks coloured slightly, the change noticeable even in the dim light. "Or, um, what I said?"

I covered his hand with my own, letting its warmth distract me for a moment before gently lifting it from my arm. "We need to talk," I said quietly, watching his face as he thrust his hands in his pockets, as though it were the only way he could be sure he wouldn't touch me again.

"Talk, then." He moved over to the bench, brushing away a light coating of snow before sitting down and pulling his knees up to his chest.

I took a seat beside him, arranging my robes around my body so that they provided the maximum amount of warmth. In a loud but brief flapping of wings, Persephone moved so that she was perched directly above us, forever curious.

"I can't do this any more." The admission was painful. Feeling almost guilty, I ran a hand through my hair, inadvertently creating the tousled look that Potter liked so much.

"What do you mean?" His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were wide as he waited for my response.

"I..." I paused, trying to collect my thoughts and emotions into a logical whole and finding the task quite impossible. "I just can't, okay?" I concluded, wincing slightly at the defensive tone to my voice.

"What?" Potter was obviously angry now, the emotion flaring within his eyes and betrayed by the rising colour of his cheeks. "So I don't deserve an explanation, is that it?"

I shrugged, distracted by the sickly pounding of my heart within my chest. "That's not what I meant," I replied eventually.

"No?" It was Potter's turn to shrug, the gesture sharp and violent. "Fuck you, Draco. I'm sick of your bullshit."

I forced my lips into a smile, a teeth-baring imitation of the real thing. "If only you'd decided that months ago," I replied coolly, "we wouldn't have had to go through with this stupid charade."

"It's funny," Potter began. His words were casual, but the chipped accusation in his voice spoke of something more significant. "No matter how many times you tell me that this isn't real, there's a part of me that says that you're lying."

"You knew what you were getting into when you agreed to go along with this." The cold mass inside my stomach shifted a little as I began to feel a little annoyed by his expectation that I should justify my actions. "You've known all along that I'm not redeemable."

He laughed bitterly. "Just because you're in a different house to me, that doesn't make you evil."

"Whatever." I shrugged again, curling into myself a little as a result of the gesture.

"Why now?" Potter asked abruptly, after a few moments of uncomfortable silence. "You say it was inevitable, and perhaps it was, but why now? Why not yesterday, or last week, or sometime next century?"

"Why not?" My answer was intentionally irritating and the flash of annoyance that coloured his eyes was a pleasing award.

"For god's sake, Draco, don't you owe me this much?"

I frowned. "Since when do I owe you anything?" I replied petulantly, as much to stall for time as to antagonise him.

Suddenly, alarmingly, his whole demeanour changed. I watched mutely as his scowl quivered for a moment before disappearing entirely, the accusative look in his eyes softening and becoming something a thousand times more disconcerting. "You're right," he finally replied, his tone barely audible. "You don't owe me anything at all."

The weight settled in my stomach once again and I felt my own glare shrinking and becoming static upon my face. Beside me, Potter sat hunched in upon himself, his fringe covering his eyes.

"I'm sorry," I said finally.

"Of course you are," he replied flatly.

"I mean it."

"If you were sorry, you wouldn't be doing this."

I reached across to tentatively take his hand, my fingers sliding easily between his own. "It's better this way," I said, the cliché of my words churning my stomach. "For both of us."

"How do you know what's better for me?" he snapped. "It's not like you've let me have a say in any of this. God, Draco, I can't even react to this like a normal break-up because it wasn't real in the first place."

"It felt pretty real," I muttered. "Too real."

"Then why?" Reaching up, he cupped my chin with his free hand, meeting my eyes.

I could feel myself wavering beneath the force of his gaze and the strength of his reasoning. It was as though the rest of the world had slowed to a gelatinous pause around us, as though our entire history together had been leading up to that moment. For the first time, I realised just how deeply tangled my life had become. The knowledge twisted within me, looping throughout every inch of my body and spiking sharply inside my mind.

"I can't do this any more," I said again, my voice cracking on the last word, grasping at the only explanation I cared to voice.

"Why?" he insisted. "Because you hate me? Because it's bad for your image? Or because it's becoming too real?"

I remained silent. He shook his head, a slight sneer twisting at the corner of his lips.

"No, I didn't really expect you to answer that," he said softly. "And I don't suppose there's anything I could say to change your mind. Then again, I bet you'd love it if I begged you to reconsider."

"Please don't." The touch of his hand on my chin felt like an accusation.

"I wasn't intending to." He smiled wryly. "I know how stubborn you are."

Despite my better intentions, I found myself returning his smile. "It's one of the better Malfoy traits."

Potter's attempt at a laugh caught in his throat. "So, this is it, then?"

I nodded. "I guess so."

His eyes dull, he leaned in to softly press his lips against my own, his hand sliding around to gently cup the back of my head. "I meant what I said yesterday," he said, his mouth brushing against mine as he spoke.

My breath left me in a sharp huff of resolution. "I know," I whispered, and I kissed him goodbye.

 


	12. The Victor's Reward

Every story has its conclusion.

Once, when I was only about six or seven, I asked my mother why I never saw my younger aunt. Even today, I can still remember the sadness in her eyes when she replied. "We don't speak of her," she told me, although I could see that she wished it was not so. I was young and unaccustomed to disobeying my mother's wishes. And so I didn't question her words, merely taking her larger hand in mine and squeezing it until she smiled.

When I was older, of course, I learned the story behind my mother's silence. She still refused to speak of it herself, but there were always whispers among the pureblood families and betrayal was not difficult to decipher. The knowledge explained many things, but it did not account for my mother's continued silence, nor for the mournful shadows that sometimes crossed her face. To me, it seemed obvious: if she missed her sister so much, then surely she could forgive her. I mulled over the situation for months, and eventually dismissed it as the usual Black family pride.

As it turns out, I was wrong.

In my 18th year, I learned that conclusions don't have to involve slow-burning grudges or hate-fuelled words. Sometimes, things just run their natural course. There is no animosity, but there is also no chance that the journey might be prolonged. Other cases are not so simple. At times, a conclusion becomes a conscious choice. Then, the dull feeling within your chest can easily be ignored, the ache of loss roughly pushed aside. Some conclusions are not about hatred or even disdain, but rather about sacrifice... or even love.

In the winter of my final year at Hogwarts, I confronted my mother a second time. "You stay away because you love her," I wrote to her, and it was not a question so much as a realisation.

"She is happier this way," came my mother's brief reply.

I understood. Not all happy endings are mutual.

 

*

 

It was not often that I found myself alone in the Slytherin common room with Crabbe and Goyle, so much so that I couldn't help wondering whether they might have engineered our solitude. Generally, the hour immediately following the evening meal was one of the room's busiest, with students, textbooks and stationery spread across seemingly every surface. That night, however, the desks remained bare and the glow of the fire cast dappled shadows across uncluttered floors.

I took my usual place on the sofa closest to the fireplace, mentally acknowledging the look that Crabbe and Goyle gave each other as I arranged my Divination homework on my lap. "Bit chilly tonight, boys," I remarked casually, while I waited for one of them to speak.

Goyle grunted what I presumed to be an affirmation, before shooting Crabbe another look.

Crabbe had obviously drawn the short straw before my arrival. "Are you okay, Draco?" he asked, the words falling clumsily from his tongue.

I frowned. "Okay? Why _wouldn't_ I be okay?"

This time it was Goyle who spoke up. "You've been acting really... _weird…_ this past week."

"Weird?" I raised an eyebrow, unwilling to make this any easier for them.

"Yeah. Weird. You've been all..." Goyle's voice trailed off, and he gave Crabbe a look that practically screamed for assistance.

Crabbe studied the fire intently for a few moments before completing Goyle's sentence for him. "Sad. You seem sad."

"Malfoys are not sad."

"Sure, Draco." Goyle didn't even have the decency to _look_ as though he believed me. Returning his gaze to the parchment on his lap, he drew a few fluid lines before speaking again, his eyes remaining firmly on the movement of his quill. "Is it something to do with Potter?"

Despite myself, my voice was harsh when I answered. "What about Potter?"

Crabbe and Goyle exchanged another look.

"Well?" I demanded.

"It's just..." Crabbe paused, frowning as though searching for the words least likely to cause me to throw my Divination textbook at his head. "You seemed happier when you were still dating Potter," he said finally.

"It's normal to feel a bit sad after a break-up," Goyle chipped in helpfully.

I stared at him, treating him to my best withering scowl. "Since when have you ever _dated_ anyone, Goyle, let alone broken up with them?"

"There was that Ravenclaw girl. You know, the blonde one."

"Stalking doesn't count."

Sulking, Goyle went back to covering his parchment in disembodied breasts.

"Anyway," I continued, unwilling to let things rest while my friends were suffering under such a misguided delusion, "it wasn't a _real_ break-up, remember? I told you: I was only pretending to date Potter."

Crabbe stared down at the dungeon floor as he replied. "We thought you might just have said that because you didn't want anyone thinking Potter dumped you."

I wasn't about to let that ludicrous comment stand. " _I_ dumped _him_ ," I retorted, then frowned. "Well, that is, I called off the pretence," I quickly clarified.

"Sure, Draco," Goyle muttered once again.

This was getting ridiculous. How on earth was I supposed to convince my friends that I was telling the truth when they were so stubbornly refusing to listen to a thing I said? You’d have thought that they would have been relieved when I had told them that the whole Potter incident was a farce, not oddly desperate to believe me a liar.

If I were perfectly honest—something that I preferred _not_ to be, if it were at all possible—there was a chance that I had been acting a little differently from my usual, charming self over the past week. My schoolwork had suffered slightly and I had missed my first ever Quidditch practice, but I chose to attribute my apathy to a delayed trauma response to the period of time I'd spent pretending to like Harry Potter. A nightmarish experience such as that was sure to have a few after effects, I had reasoned.

In a way, I supposed that it was rather gratifying that Crabbe and Goyle were worried about me. Time and time again that year, they had proven themselves to be true friends, rather than the mindless henchmen that the Gryffindors liked to make them out to be. Well, perhaps mindless wasn't _so_ far from the truth, but we can't all be academic geniuses like myself. No, despite their irritating refusal to believe my protestations that I didn't care whether Potter lived or died, Crabbe and Goyle were pretty good sorts.

The Potter thing, however? That was already growing old.

Realising that my current tactics weren't working, I tried to try another direction of assault. Casting my Divination work to one side, convinced that I wasn't likely to be able to complete my homework in peace, I looked at Crabbe and Goyle in turn, fixing them with my best unruffled look.

"You seem to be awfully fond of Potter all of a sudden," I said slowly, enunciating my words carefully for full effect. "I'm not sure why you think him capable of holding so much power over me."

"Potter's an idiot," Goyle said mildly, not as flustered as I would have liked. "But it doesn't really matter whether _we_ like him or not."

"Yeah," Crabbe chipped in. "We're not the ones who have to snog him, are we?"

Thrown, I held up a hand to silence them while I tried rapidly to collect my thoughts. "Hey, I'm not snogging Potter either," I said eventually, wanting to correct that one thing at least. "I just did that to prove I could."

"Wouldn't you only need to kiss him once to do that?"

I glared at Crabbe, but he just returned my gaze without flinching, his eyes wide with a fair imitation of innocence.

"I don't know why we're even discussing this," I grumbled. "Surely you both have better things to do."

In what was swiftly becoming an irritating pattern, my friends yet again took no notice of my protestations. Instead, Goyle cast aside his now-obscene parchment and shifted his weight so that he was facing me, his long legs bent awkwardly to the side.

"I guess what we're saying, Draco," he said slowly, his brow creasing with the effort of being so eloquent, "is that we don't care if you want to date Harry Potter. We don't _understand_ ," he continued, Crabbe interjecting a wordless sound of disgust, "but we don't care."

I couldn't help but feel a little touched by his statement, as surprising as it was. If I had actually wanted to date Potter, then I'm sure I would have been relieved. As it was, however, I was mostly just perplexed.

"But he's a Gryffindor," I protested, "and he killed the Dark Lord! What's more, he's arrogant and annoying and completely useless at Potions. He's not even a pureblood!"

"None of that seemed to bother you a week ago," Crabbe pointed out.

" _It wasn’t real!_ "

I looked down, embarrassed that I had been provoked into raising my voice in such a plebeian manner. I was fed up with their insinuations and accusations, however. This was hard enough without my friends deciding to play matchmakers with me and my worst enemy. If only people would leave me alone, I knew I'd be back to my usual self in time.

Once I had regained a little control, I tried again, pretending that I couldn't see the self-satisfied expressions colouring both Crabbe's and Goyle's faces. "I was never really dating Harry Potter," I said for what felt like the thousandth time. "I just _said_ that I was, because I was sick of everyone feeling like they knew some sordid secret about me. But it was never real. I just got Potter to play along with it for a while."

"Why would _Potter_ agree to date you—or even _pretend_ to date you—if he didn't like you?" Crabbe asked, obviously still not convinced.

I grimaced, my bottom lip twisting and catching within my teeth. "I guess that part was real."

Crabbe nodded. "Yeah, it's pretty obvious that he's into you."

"Really?" I asked before I could stop myself. Annoyed, I quickly covered up my mistake. "Uh. I mean, of course he is. Who wouldn't be?"

Goyle wrinkled his nose. "Me, for starters. I'm not into all that _gay_ stuff." Intercepting a pointed look from Crabbe, he quickly went on, "But I don't mind if _you_ are."

"I'm not gay!" I argued, trying desperately to keep my voice even.

"Fine, you're not gay." I felt like hugging Crabbe, so pleased was I to hear something that made _sense_ finally. Unfortunately, however, he hadn't finished. "It's okay if you like Potter, though."

My temples were beginning to throb, possibly due to my brain's attempt to burst from the intense frustration of the conversation. I was starting to feel as though I would never escape from this endless loop of accusations and denials.

"I. Do. Not. Like. Potter."

"You do."

I gave Crabbe a _look_ , one of my most terrifying ones, if my practice sessions in front of the mirror were anything to go by. For some reason, however, it seemed to have no effect at all on him. Giving up, I let my body slump back into the cushions of the couch and closed my eyes, willing the nightmare to end.

Crabbe obviously wasn't feeling merciful that day. "You were really happy," he said, his tone unusually tentative. "You started _smiling_ , Draco. Proper smiles, like you actually meant it."

That peculiar statement couldn't help but attract my attention. "I _smile_ ," I protested.

Goyle shook his head. "Not like that."

"I don't believe this," I muttered.

Reaching across Goyle, I picked up the parchment that he had previously discarded. It had been all but covered in his usual sketches of scantily clad and naked women, with a couple of Snitches and a basic caricature of Snape adding a little more variety. A couple of the more obscene figures seemed to bear the faces of various girls from lower years and I couldn't help but wonder what they might think, should they be unfortunate enough to stumble upon Goyle's art.

Smirking, I tucked the parchment between the couch's cushions. If Goyle felt the need to be so excruciatingly annoying, then it was only fair that he should expect retaliation of _some_ form or another, after all.

That out of the way, I decided to attempt to do the homework that had been put aside in favour of being barraged from both sides by Crabbe and Goyle. Selecting my favourite quill from my quill case, I spread my own parchment on my lap and actually managed to write an inch and a half on the prophetic properties of cloud formations before I was bothered again.

"Why'd you do it, Draco?"

I turned to give Goyle a disbelieving look. "Do what?"

"Why'd you break up with Potter?"

"I told you," I sighed. "It wasn't real."

Goyle wasn't going to give up that easily. "Okay, but why'd you decide to stop pretending?"

"There's only so much Harry Potter that a bloke can take."

"It must have been pretty gross having to kiss him all the time," Crabbe offered helpfully.

"Yes." I frowned, momentarily distracted by a sudden flash of memory: Potter's arms looped lightly around my back and his lips pressed against my own, warm and soft and maddeningly addictive. "Gross," I repeated quietly.

When I looked up, my friends were staring at me strangely. Realising that I was not helping matters, I decided that a compromise might be necessary if I wanted to get any further homework done that night.

"If I tell you why I ended the stupid charade, will you promise to stop going on about Potter?" I looked at each of my friends in turn, waiting for their response.

Eventually, Goyle shrugged and nodded. Crabbe followed suit.

I twirled my quill between my fingers, keeping my eyes focused on the movement as I spoke. "It was starting to get too real. Potter was—" My voice trailed off as I tried to collect my thoughts. "Potter knew it was all an act, but he acted as though it wasn't."

There was a long and uncomfortable silence while my friends digested this new information.

"We thought you were worried about what people were saying," Goyle said finally.

The quill stilled for a brief moment before resuming its motion. "Why would _I_ care about what other people think?"

"It's not like anyone really minds anyway," Goyle went on, ignoring my question. "I mean, it's _weird_ , but it's okay."

"Right," I muttered, not believing a word of it. I was still hearing the too-familiar whispers in the halls, even though it was now common knowledge that Potter and I were no longer 'dating'.

"Right," Goyle echoed, his voice a lot more confident than my own. "Not that it matters anyway, now."

"No," I agreed quietly. "It's not an issue any more."

Crabbe gave me a strange look.

"What?" I demanded.

"You should do whatever makes you happy, Draco," he said in a rare show of wisdom.

"It's not always about _my_ happiness," I murmured, staring intently at the words on the parchment in front of me, refusing to meet either of my friends' eyes.

"Sorry, Draco," said Goyle, and the sliding note of sympathy in his voice was almost more than I could bear.

Roughly, I gathered my homework, precariously balancing my book, parchment and quills in my arms as I stood. "I think I'll have an early night," I announced, feeling a sharp jolt of relief when neither Crabbe nor Goyle questioned my decision.

As I made my way to our dormitory, I felt the first shadowy tendrils of loneliness tugging at my mind. It was ridiculous, really. My life was back to normal. The Potter-filled aberrations of the past few months had been cast aside and I had become immersed once more in the familiar patterns of my former life. I should have felt as though I was finally back in control.

Instead, however, I just felt lost.

 

*

 

A week before Christmas, Granger accosted me in the hallway after class. “We need to talk,” she said.

I raised an eyebrow. “Another declaration of love?” I asked, amused. “There have been so many recently.”

“Not likely.”

The door to the Charms classroom was a few feet away, so I nodded towards it, curious despite myself. She led the way, her bushy hair bouncing as she walked, and I followed behind, thinking of the peculiar habit that I seemed to have formed of spending time with Gryffindors in abandoned classrooms. Then again, it was hardly the strangest thing I had found myself doing that year.

Once inside, I took a seat on top of one of the desks, dropping my scrolls and Divination textbook on the chair behind it. Granger, always so fearful of doing anything that might even remotely be construed as against the rules, slid into a nearby chair. Having the height advantage put me a little more at ease.

“How’s the weasel?” I asked. “Are the two of you still fighting? More to the point, does he know you tried to kiss me yet?”

“I was never going to kiss you.”

I smirked. “It sure seemed that way, what with the clumsy attempts at flirtation and blatant attempt to make out with me. If Potter hadn’t arrived in time…”

She opened her mouth, her eyes indignant, but seemed to think better of whatever she had been going to say, instead remaining silent for a few seconds while her shoulders rose and fell with several deep breaths. “Ron and I are fine,” she said tightly, “and yes, he knows what happened, but not that I tried to kiss you because I didn’t. I just wanted you to think I might.”

“Nice try,” I laughed, “but that’s about the weakest story I’ve ever heard. Admit it: you’re aflutter at the very sight of me.”

“Oh Draco,” she said, “I know you think you’re some kind of wizarding Don Juan, but you’re really, really not. You’re pale and scrawny and completely full of yourself. We’ve all been wondering what on earth it is that Harry sees in you.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Granger was, quite clearly, even more insane than I had previously realised. “Half the school’s in love with me, and the other half could be persuaded if I put my mind to it.”

“Name five.”

“Longbottom,” I said, shuddering a little at the memory of his puffy-faced declarations. “Pansy, too.”

“Neville is easily swayed and desperate to be loved and needed. And Pansy Parkinson looks like a Pekinese.”

I glared at her. “You’re hardly Playwizard material yourself, you know.”

“Three more.”

“Potter.”

She nodded. “Two.”

I frowned. “This is petty,” I said. “And I don’t understand your point.”

“I have zero interest in seducing you, Malfoy,” she said. “You’re quite resistible, much as it kills you to admit it.”

“It certainly seemed like you were interested a few weeks ago.”

Granger shook her head, smiling a little. “I was testing you. I knew you’d never be able to keep up the charade of caring for Harry if the perfect way to destroy him was dropped right into your hands. And what better way to hurt him than to seduce his best friend?”

“I didn’t seduce anyone!” I protested. “And I wasn’t _seduced_ , either. I told you I was taken, remember?”

Her expression was serious. “I remember. I didn’t believe it at first. I thought you were protesting for appearance’s sake, but kissing me would’ve been the perfect betrayal. And you didn’t want a bar of it.”

“Frankly, Granger, I don’t find you the slightest bit attractive.”

“That wouldn’t matter,” she said. “Not if you hated Harry as much as you say you do.”

“I think you’re underestimating the level of my repulsion.”

“I think _you’re_ trying to distract me with insults because I’m getting too close to the truth.”

I scowled at her. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Draco,” she said, “I wanted to prove that you didn’t give a damn about Harry, but I was wrong.”

“Wait a minute,” I said, cocking my head to one side. “Did I just hear you admit you got something wrong? Hermione Perfect-Grades-Are-My-Aphrodisiac Granger?”

“When I’m wrong, I’m happy to admit it. Unlike you.” Annoyingly, she seemed immune to my ridicule. And determined to discuss things that I’d rather have left alone.

“I’m never wrong.”

“You are this time. I know Ron talked to you. I know he said that you were making Harry unhappy and you were, in a way, but not like now. I know…” She paused for a moment, her brow furrowed in reflection of some internal conflict. “I know you care about Harry,” she said finally. “I still struggle to believe it, and I’m still worried that you’ll end up doing something terrible in the future and breaking his heart, but I know that you care.”

I opened my mouth to deny the charge, but the words caught on my tongue.

“If you ended things for Harry’s sake, you were wrong,” she said. “Merlin, if you’d seen him when he came back to the homeroom…”

“I don’t want to hear it,” I said, raising a hand as if to fend off her words.

“Perhaps you need to.”

My clothing was too tight. Despite the chill of the day, I felt as though I was burning, my skin heated and clammy with sweat. The classroom air was suffocating and dusty and the patch of sunlight cast on the floor by the sinking sun made my eyes sting from the reflected brightness. My pulse was fast; I could feel its flutter at the side of my neck. I needed some fresh air. I needed Granger to stop picking at old wounds.

“I can’t,” I said, hating myself for the sharp sound of my voice.

“Why not?”

Never in a million years would I have thought that one day I’d be sitting on a desk in the Charms classroom with Hermione Granger looking at me with _sympathy_ in her brown eyes. Somehow, that seemed worse than any of the humiliations I’d suffered in the six months prior—and there had been many since Harry Potter had decided to worm his way into my life.

I knew what I needed to do. A few carefully designed lies, the right arrogant expression, and Granger would be happy to return to her long-held belief that I was beyond redemption. The Gryffindors always considered themselves so different to the members of Slytherin house, but they held grudges just as well as we did—perhaps even more strongly. It was natural for Granger to expect the worst of me, which was why it felt so unnerving to have her look at me and see something else.

All I needed to do was tell her that I still hated Potter, and all of this would be done for good. She’d believe me. After all, it was what she had to be hoping to hear.

A lie would’ve fixed everything, but instead, I somehow found myself telling the truth. “Because it was real,” I said. “Too real.”

Granger was silent for so long that I began to wonder whether I’d broken her ability to speak with my admission. Certainly, something was broken inside me, something that had been broken beyond repair from that first time that Potter had looked at me and smiled instead of his usual glare.

This was her moment of triumph, if she wanted it. A Malfoy, laid open before a Mudblood, my only weakness exposed. But she didn’t take it and I didn’t want to know why.

“Ron and I argued over you,” she said instead. “He was so sure that you were out to hurt Harry, but I’d seen how you looked at him in the library that day.”

I frowned. “So you tested me.”

“I don’t believe in condemning people unless they’ve actually done something wrong.” She held up a hand as I started to interject. “Draco, I have many reasons to dislike you and at least half of them involve the word ‘Mudblood’. You’re demonstrably a bigot and your politics are dubious at best. But judging you for being an obnoxious human being is separate to judging your behaviour with Harry.”

“Bloody Gryffindors,” I muttered, annoyed. “Always so desperate to judge as long as it’s not one of your own in the dock.”

“Yes, because Slytherins don’t look after their own at _all_ ,” she said wryly. “No matter. You passed the test, obnoxious human being or not. You may be the most abhorrent student at Hogwarts, but you don’t want to hurt Harry.”

My noises of protest were less convincing than I would have liked.

“He’s hurting right now, Draco. I know Ron told you otherwise, but he’s too caught up in protecting Harry to actually see what’s going on. He’s _not better off_.”

She sighed, a soft huff of breath that sounded like relief and despondence rolled into one. Standing, she rearranged her robes and paused for a moment, as though expecting a response. Six months ago, I’d have been quick with a witty insult, something that demonstrated just how unmoved I was by her words, but I had made so many denials that there seemed to be nothing left.

“Just think about it, okay?” she said, taller than me now that she was standing.

My mouth was still my enemy. I didn’t trust myself to say anything, so I simply nodded.

“And I would never, ever be interested in you,” she said, shaking her head, before taking her leave.

Alone, I sat in the classroom until the patch of sunlight crossed the floor and disappeared.

 

*

 

The owlery was strangely empty two days before Christmas. Many of the birds were already stuffed into cages awaiting transportation back to their owners’ homes for the Christmas break and those that remained were puffing up their feathers and fussing at the prospect of being left behind. Persephone looked particularly irate, accustomed as she was to being fetched long before only the dregs of the flock remained.

“Sorry, girl,” I said, reaching up to stroke her wing. She gave me a sharp peck of admonishment, but fluttered over to watch from a closer perch as I took a seat at the little wooden table beneath a window and pulled out parchment and quill.

Twenty-two days since I’d last spoken to Potter, longer since I’d last received a note in his messy scrawl, and still I couldn’t help but think of our few brief communications as I unrolled the curl of paper. It was funny the little things that you found yourself missing. One morning, a couple of months earlier, I had been woken by Potter’s owl landing upon my chest and, when I’d unfolded the piece of parchment she’d dropped on my face, the only thing on it was a poorly drawn sketch of a house-elf and the words _good morning_. I’d been irritated at the time—or, at least, I had told Potter so—but there had another, strange feeling too, one that had caused me to bury the note deep in a pile of schoolwork inside my bedside cupboard instead of tearing it to pieces.

I wondered what would happen if I sent Potter a note now, instead of writing the letter to my parents that I had come here to send. Nothing at all, most likely. Since that last day in the courtyard, he’d not so much as looked at me. Even in class, he somehow managed to position himself so there was no chance of him glancing my way by mistake. In contrast, I was always acutely aware of his presence, noticing every tiny move that he made out of the corner of my eye, my jaw tightening when the sound of his laugh rose above the noise of the class. I had finally managed to remove Potter from all but the periphery of my life, but still he nagged at my senses and my mind.

Life had been a lot easier when all I had to do was hate him.

Now I was stupidly proud of him, in a way. I’d told him to go and he’d finally mustered up the self-respect to actually leave. And it was what I wanted, I told myself time and time again. It was the only outcome that was likely from the start, even if I’d managed to get myself tangled up in events and feelings that muddied my vision for a while. Potter and I were enemies. Everyone knew that. If I’d begun to enjoy his company or to look forward to his kisses, it was the work of a momentary madness, nothing more. That he could stay away so easily was proof that ending things had been the right choice. No matter how many times I imagined the sound of Hedwig’s wings, only to turn to find nothing there.

Sighing, I dipped my quill into the dark grey ink I favoured and began to write.

_Dear Mother,_

_I’m sorry for the late notice, but I think it best that I remain at Hogwarts over the Christmas period. I have a lot of schoolwork to do and will be grateful for a quiet common room to do it in._

_Love, Draco_

My mother knew me far too well to miss my actual reason for staying at school, but hopefully she would allow me the pretence. The last thing I needed was a lecture from my father about the shame I had brought upon the family name by snogging Harry Potter once or twice. Or thirty or forty times, but who was counting? Potter, perhaps, not that he’d care any more.  Regardless of what Granger had said, it was obvious that he’d moved on.

A lot more easily than I liked.

I waved the parchment back and forth a few times to dry the ink before folding it in half and then in half again. “Are you still in a bad mood,” I asked Persephone, “or are you up to taking this to my mother?”

She ruffled her feathers at the question, but took the parchment with her beak without further prompting. Her bad moods were mostly bluster and I knew she’d never allow a sulk to get in the way of the treats my mother fed her when my father wasn’t looking.

“Come back soon, okay?” I said, giving her head a scratch. “I expect you to keep me company once everyone else has left.”

When she was gone, I packed up my quill and ink, pausing a moment to watch the other owls doze before leaving. Owls were so easy compared to people. A treat here, a head-scratch there, and they were your friend for life and happy to do your bidding. Persephone had never suggested that I was happier dating Potter than hating him; an owl had never tried to convince me that I had been wrong to set him free.

At least I’d be free of all that nonsense once the train left for London that evening. A week and a half alone would be just what I needed to clear my mind, to erase the past few months just as Potter had found it so easy to do.

Tired all of a sudden, I rubbed stiffness from my neck as I began the downward journey to the dungeons. Not far from the owlery, however, I was stopped by a loud flapping of wings and the unexpected weight of a large owl landing on my shoulder. It dropped a small piece of parchment into my still-raised hand and proceeded to nibble on my hair as I unfolded the note.

My stomach twisted and my pulse began to pound as I recognised the handwriting. Potter’s.

_I need to see you. I’ll be in the Room of Requirement at three. If you don’t come, I won’t bother you again._

I stared at the words until Hedwig began to fidget on my shoulder, obviously eager to get back to her master. With a hand that was shaking more than I liked to admit, I quickly scrawled a reply on the parchment’s reverse.

_I’ll be there._

Hedwig snatched the note from my grasp before the ink had even had the chance to dry, flying off down the corridor in the direction of the Gryffindor common room. I pictured the utter chaos it must be in with dozens of Gryffindors all trying to pack up their possessions at once, but even that couldn’t produce a strong enough feeling of superiority to drown out the nervous churning of my stomach.

What did Potter want? I wondered. And, more importantly, why did I even care?

As I passed the Transfiguration classroom I checked the clock beside the blackboard at the front of the room. It wasn’t even 11 yet. Three pm felt a very long way away.

 

*

 

My experience with the Room of Requirement had almost entirely consisted of stolen moments of privacy with Pansy so, when I entered it at precisely five minutes past three, my hair carefully dishevelled, I was surprised to find it empty of comfortable sofas and filled instead with hard chairs and wooden desks. Where I remembered cushions and blankets there were now blank surfaces and the soft candlelight had been replaced by a harsh overhead glow. Potter was sitting in one of the furthermost chairs, his fingers tapping a nervous beat on the desk in front of him. His hair, messy as always, cast a deep shadow over his lowered face, the green of his eyes concealed beneath his dark fringe and lashes. As my gaze travelled over his tense form, something twisted in my chest. I felt ill.

Crossing the room, I tried my best to hide my sudden feeling of unease. “I’ve never seen this place look so uninviting,” I said, taking the chair opposite his. My voice sounded unnaturally bright. “I take it that’s intentional.”

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he said without looking up.

“I always do, don’t I?”

“Huh.” Finally raising his gaze from the desktop, he looked at me strangely. “I suppose you do.”

“I take it you didn’t bring me here to admire my stunning good looks,” I said, linking my hands behind my head and leaning back in my chair in an attempt to appear much more confident than I felt. “And I can tell by the décor that you’ve nothing physical in mind.”

“Physical?” He looked confused.

“Let me guess: Gryffindors only use this place for the most noble of reasons.”

“And Slytherins use it to…?”

“Snog, mostly.” I shrugged, my hands still behind my head. “That and lose their virginity.”

He looked genuinely shocked, possibly because he’d just realised where his best friends had been nicking off to every five minutes. “And you still came?”

“You’re the one who chose the place.”

“But I didn’t—“ Breaking off, he shook his head. “I’m not going to argue with you. Not today.”

“What’s so special about today?” I ran through a list of important dates in my mind, but came up blank. “I know it’s not your birthday, and it’s certainly not mine.”

He gave me another strange look. It was starting to get a little disconcerting. “You know my birthday?”

“Doesn’t everyone? You _are_ our resident Hogwarts celebrity, after all.”

“And _you’re_ my enemy, remember? You’ve said so often enough. Enemies don’t make a habit of remembering each other’s birthdays.”

I snorted. “Says the guy who wrote me an entire book for mine.”

“Exactly,” he said, as though that made any sense at all.

“I don’t understand you, Potter,” I said. “You completely ignore me for weeks, message me out of the blue to ask me to meet you, and then talk utter nonsense when I do. What do you want from me?” I unlaced my fingers, allowing my hands to drop onto the desk between us, bare inches away from Potter’s. If I stretched only slightly, I’d be able to cover his fingers with my own. For a moment, I contemplated doing so, but his next words forced such foolish ideas from my head.

“I want to say goodbye.” He didn’t look at me when he said it, but there was a tightness to his jaw that I recognised as an indication of resolve.

“What, before Christmas break?” I asked, keeping my tone light. “Awfully dramatic for that, isn’t this?”

“No. Not before Christmas. Forever.”

I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, but my veins seemed to be filled with ice. “What do you mean?”

His gaze remained fixed on the desk top, his tapping fingers finally stilled. “A final goodbye,” he said, as though that cleared things up entirely. “Things ended… suddenly. And I understand that,” he went on quickly, as though expecting me to protest, “but there wasn’t a great deal of closure. I thought it would help to talk about it. And then I’ll never bother you again.”

When I spoke, I could barely recognise my voice as my own. “What exactly do you want me to say?”

“Goodbye.”

I let the breath I’d been holding escape in a soft huff of frustration. “And you summoned me here just for that?”

“Why did you _think_ I asked you to meet me?”

I looked around, hands raised. “Here? I told you what I’ve used this place for in the past.”

He still refused to meet my gaze, but his face twitched a little at my comment. “You said Slytherins,” he said tightly. “Not you.”

“I hate to have to point it out to you at this late juncture, but I _am_ a Slytherin. Have been for six and a half years.”

He didn’t react, instead frowning in unhelpful silence for a long moment before speaking again. “So you came here thinking that I wanted to snog you?”

I shrugged. “That or beg for me to take you back. Both, most likely.”

There was that look again. “And yet you came.”

“I’m a glutton for punishment,” I said. “That and I like seeing people beg.”

“I’m not going to beg.”

“Yes,” I said, keeping my voice even. “You’ve established that.”

He opened his mouth but whatever he had intended to say was lost as he was distracted by a loud banging followed by a pounding of wings as Persephone landed on the desk between us, dropping a folded piece of parchment onto the wood.

“How’d you manage to get in here?” I asked her, scratching the back of her head as a thank you. “Fly back and forth three times while thinking you needed to give this to me?”

She made a soft cooing noise that I took for a yes before scuttling forward to peck Potter firmly on the chin. I tried to hide my smile.

Glad for the diversion, I unfolded the letter, my heart sinking a little as I recognised my mother’s stylish hand.

 _Darling Draco,_ the letter read.

_You will be missed, but schoolwork must come first, if that is truly your reason for staying away. The news of you and Harry Potter came as a surprise to both of us, but your happiness is what matters to me and your father will soon come around. Please send us a long letter on Christmas Day._

_Your loving mother._

Conflicted, I pushed the parchment aside. I didn’t realise that Potter was able to read it until he spoke.

“You’re staying here over Christmas?”

I nodded, silent.

“When did your parents find out?” he asked.

“A while ago. Before you stopped speaking to me, obviously.”

“Before _I_ —“ He shook his head, finally meeting my eyes. “I can’t believe you. Before _you_ broke up with me, Draco. You essentially told me to leave you alone, and now I’m the bad guy for doing what you wanted?”

“I didn’t say you had to ignore me,” I muttered.

“What else was I supposed to do? Pretend that nothing happened? Go back to exchanging insults with you in Potions class and glaring at you in the halls? Act like I still hated you?”

I laughed, but when the sound emerged from my throat it was choked and cold. “Given that you found it so easy to move on, I doubt it’d be an act.”

“Easy?” The anger that had been making his words harsh and jagged seemed to fade as he held my gaze, shaking his head in apparent amazement. “Merlin, you don’t understand emotions at all, do you?”

“I try to avoid them wherever possible.”

The corner of his mouth twitched slightly, as though tempted to smile. “Trust me, I know.”

I had the vague feeling I was being mocked, so I didn’t reply, instead focusing on smoothing my hair back into its usual sleek style. Potter watched me, something in his eyes shifting as he took in what I was doing. Thankfully, he didn’t voice his awareness. I wasn’t in the mood to lie.

“Draco,” he said, after a long and uncomfortable silence, “why did you break things off?”

I frowned. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” he insisted. “To me, it does.”

“No it doesn’t,” I said, and as I spoke it was as though every thought and feeling that I had suppressed over the last few weeks was churning inside me, pushing to be let out. I felt light-headed and disconcertingly out of control. “It was all a lie anyway.”

“Our so-called relationship?”

I shook my head. “You loving me.”

His face was unreadable. He watched me for a while before speaking and, when he did, it was with a halting pace, as though he was carefully measuring each word before saying it. “What difference do my feelings make?”

“Loving me gets people hurt,” I said. “Just ask Pansy.”

He looked down, his fingers resuming their staccato beat. “Isn’t it up to those people whether they want to take the risk?”

I remained silent. For the first time in months, I couldn’t think of anything to say.

“And where do _your_ feelings come into it?” he persisted, as though he didn’t realise—or perhaps didn’t care—how uncomfortable his questions were making me feel. “What happens if you love a person back?”

I thought of my mother and of the aunt I’d never met. “Then you stop hurting them,” I said.

Something in his face softened and, when he spoke again, his words had lost their peevish tone. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you just admitted to being capable of selflessness.”

I felt exposed. Even after weeks of silence, Potter could still affect me in ways I didn’t understand. I’d told him more than I’d ever told Crabbe or Goyle, more even than Pansy knew of my thoughts and inner workings, and to what end? Nothing but a vague feeling of loss and this cold throbbing within my veins.

I needed to get out of that sterile room and away from its army of desks and The Boy Who Lived His Life Just Fine Without Me In It.

“So this final goodbye,” I said, forcing my face into a mask of cool indifference. “What do you want me to say?”

He looked surprised. “You’re okay with it? I’m offering to leave you alone for good, to never speak to you again. No sparring, no insults… no snogging.”

“It’s what you want,” I said.

“Is it what _you_ want?” he persisted.

“Goodbye, Potter,” I said, and I held out my hand for him to shake.

His grip was warm and strong. I squeezed his hand a little too long and a little too hard and when I let go it felt as though the pressure remained.

“You’d better go pack,” I said, my voice tight.

He left without further comment, the ease of it somehow infuriating and dismaying at the same time.

 

*

 

That night, after most of the students had left and once the Slytherin common room was empty and quiet, I took a seat at the broad oak table that sat beneath a portrait of my great, great uncle and dipped my favourite quill into a bottle of dark ink.

 _Pansy,_ I wrote in a wavering hand. _I promised I’d tell you._

It was enough.

I blotted the ink. I signed my name.

I made it real.

 

*

 

Christmas Eve at Hogwarts was cold and quiet. Late morning, I took my broomstick out to the Quidditch pitch to try to clear my head with a few practice drills, but the sleety weather made basic flying an exercise in frustration and any sort of trick a suicidal feat. I quickly gave up and, for want of anything more interesting to do, headed back to the near-empty common room and settled in for an afternoon of study. Two of the Slytherin first years were also staying at school over the Christmas break, but I built a barricade of text books around me that warned them that I wasn’t interested in their childish company. Homework wasn’t as good a distraction as flying, but it was better than turning the previous day’s events over and over in my head and meant that I wouldn’t have to lie to my mother if she asked about the work I had ‘needed’ to stay at Hogwarts to do.

When I made my way up to the Great Hall for dinner, I took my Potions text book with me as a further indication that I wanted to be left alone—by the teachers as well as my fellow students. I wasn’t in the mood to make small talk with Trelawney about her latest premonition or to hear about whatever dumb creature Hagrid had caged up in his most recent trip into the Forbidden Forest. I just wanted to put in the required mealtime appearance and then escape back to my dorm room to fill my head with potion recipes, hex wordings and basically anything that wasn’t Harry Potter.

As soon as I took my seat, I propped the textbook open in front of me and busied myself with the intricacies of the correct stirring technique for balding potions while I awaited the appearance of the food. When the chair next to mine was pulled back and sat upon, I did my best to ignore the intruder, glaring at the pages in front of me. Much as I usually enjoyed the hero worship bestowed upon me by the younger Slytherins, I didn’t feel like playing benevolent god.

“Draco?”

The tentative voice was all-too-familiar, and it didn’t belong to the first year I had been expecting.

Turning, I found myself looking right into the dark green eyes of Harry Potter. The very person I had been trying my best to forget. “Potter.”

“If you’re busy with your study…” he began, trailing off as I pushed the textbook to one side.

“I thought you were spending Christmas at the weasel hole,” I said.

“The Burrow,” he corrected me. “And I was. I came back.”

“I didn’t know you could do that.”

He smiled, but his features remained tight. “I have an in with the headmaster.”

Typical. It didn’t take me long at Hogwarts to learn that the school rules applied to everyone _but_ Harry Potter and his annoying little friends. Friends who were surely unimpressed by his absconding from their cosy Christmas nest.

“What about Granger and the weasel?” I asked him. “Aren’t their feelings dreadfully hurt by your not wanting to spend every waking moment in their pockets?”

“It was their idea that I come back.”

I could think of at least a dozen jabs about his friends’ relationship that he had left himself wide open to, but for some reason, I remained quiet.

“I think they were sick of me talking in circles,” he went on, as though that explained everything.

It didn’t.

“I thought you weren’t meant to be talking at all,” I said. “Not to me, anyway. Or is it just that I’m not supposed to be talking to you?”

“Both,” he said. “At least, that was the idea. A bloody stupid idea, as it turns out.”

I stared at him, but his face held no cues. “I don’t understand.”

Leaning over, he grabbed my hand and held it. His skin was hot.

“Hear me out, okay?” he said. “I’ve been thinking about this since I left you yesterday. Running over things again and again in my head, trying to work out what was real and what was just wishful thinking. And I could be completely and utterly wrong, but Hermione says I’m not and even Ron couldn’t find anything to prove otherwise, so that means _something_ , yes?”

I remained silent, but I didn’t pull free of his grasp.

“All this time, I’ve been trying to leave things up to you. Not to push you into anything, or attempt to change your mind. Mind you,” he added with a wry grin, “I’ve not always succeeded. I shouldn’t have said what I did, for starters, and it was awfully hard _not_ to just grab you and kiss you whenever you’d tell me about other people being interested.”

“Possessive,” I muttered, my face flushing as I remembered the feel of Potter pushing me into tree trunks and stone walls and branding me with his lips.

“You never seemed to mind,” he teased, and I was too aware of his hand on mine to protest. “But apart from a few slip-ups,” he continued, mindless to my discomfort, “that was how I went about it. I didn’t want it if it wasn’t what you wanted too.”

I frowned. “What I wanted?”

“Us.” He squeezed my hand. “ _This_.”

Now I was _completely_ confused. Barely more than 24 hours ago, Potter had sat across from me and told me that there _was_ no us—that we weren’t even going to speak. For someone who had taken a vow of silence, he seemed to have an awful lot to say. “I think you’ve finally lost the last of your mind,” I said finally, “because you’re not making any sense.”

Despite the insult, his expression remained strangely eager. “I was letting you take the lead,” he said, looking earnestly into my eyes. “But that didn’t work, because you were letting _me_ do exactly the same thing. So we just circled around each other and when I’d push, you’d fall back, and when _you’d_ push, I’d disappear. But you didn’t really want me to do that, so you’d pull me back in and we’d play the same game all over again and, yes, it drove me a little bit mad.”

“A little?” I asked, but my tone was annoyingly warm.

“A _little_ ,” he repeated. “But then yesterday, you kept saying things that utterly confused me. And none of it made sense if you hated me. It didn’t make sense unless you _cared_ about me. Unless you were trying to protect me. But Draco—“ He leaned forward so that his mesmerising eyes were bare inches from my own. “— _I don’t want to be protected_.”

“But Weasley—”

“Stuck his nose in where he shouldn’t,” Potter finished. “I heard about that last night, and about your little talk with Hermione as well. It seems you’ve been talking to my friends more than me, recently, which I suppose is my own fault. But Ron doesn’t speak for me, Draco. He can’t stand you and can’t stand the idea of me being with you but it’s not his place to choose. And he’s wrong, anyway. You don’t make me unhappy.”

He was talking almost too quickly for me to make sense of his words, but that final sentence managed to make its way into my brain. “I don’t?”

He shook his head. “You don’t. You absolutely infuriate me a lot of the time and sometimes I don’t know whether I want to kiss you or punch you, but it’s a _lack_ of you that makes me unhappy. It’s when you push me away and when it gets too hard and you run. It’s when you’re worried about what your friends think and not about what _you_ think.”

I could feel the corners of my mouth twitch. “My friends think we should get back together,” I admitted. “Crabbe and Goyle staged something of an intervention.”

His eyebrows shot up beneath his fringe. “Now that is something I did not expect,” he said.

“You and me both.”

He was silent for a while, a parade of different emotions seeming to cross his face. I still didn’t understand what was going on, but I seemed strangely unable to mind, content to just sit beside him when I thought that would never happen again. I didn’t know how I had reached that point, or when I had stopped hating him and started to enjoy having him around. I felt like I should be horrified, as though I should be furious at myself for letting myself get inexplicably attached, but all I could feel was an odd sense of contentment and a fond amusement at his creased robes and messy hair.

When he finally spoke, it was with a solemnity that he usually reserved for his bleeding-heart causes and attempts to save the world. “Draco, I want to be with you,” he said. “And I’m pretty sure you want to be with me too, deep down. You’d just never be the one to ask. So let me do it.” He kissed me, just a quick brush of lips that was so familiar it hurt. “Let me call you my boyfriend again, but this time let it be real.”

I opened my mouth to mock him, to make a joke of his vulnerability and to break him with a no, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, I just stared at him mutely for what seemed like hours before my head betrayed me, bending in a quick nod.

Potter’s face was an explosion of light. His smile was almost worth my appalling defeat.

 

*

 

After dinner was over, I felt strangely unwilling to head straight back to the dungeons. _You’re just sick of studying_ , I told myself, but when Potter moved to take my hand outside the Great Hall I allowed it and even moved a little closer to his side.

“Let’s take a walk,” he said.

Still not trusting myself to speak, I just nodded and let him lead the way.

We walked in a strangely companionate silence through countless corridors and up what seemed like three dozen flights of stairs, before eventually arriving at the Astronomy tower.

“Bit clichéd, Potter,” I said, finally finding my voice.

He grinned at me. “I know,” he conceded, “but look at that view.”

I frowned, squinting out at the darkness, which was broken up only by the occasional flurry of sleet reflecting the light from the tower windows. “You’re mad,” I said. “Always said you were bonkers. There’s nothing to see but black.”

His grin didn’t falter. “I’m not talking about outside.”

“Oh,” I said and then, “oh,” again as I registered the meaning of his words. It was a terribly corny thing to say, and I planned to tell him so, just as soon as I could force the stupid smile back off my face.

I didn’t get the chance, because then Potter was kissing me and I could barely even catch my breath. Three weeks of uncertainty and sacrifice and frustration exploded beneath the hot pressure of his lips and I found myself clutching at his jumper and pulling him close to me, sinking back against the windowsill as he deepened the kiss.

We kissed for a long time: sometimes hard and demanding, sometimes slow and almost tentative. I tangled fingers in Potter’s hair and marked his neck with gentle bites, while he pressed kisses to the sharp edge of my jaw and stroked my arms and my chest with the palms of his hands.

Eventually we pulled apart, breathless, and I saw that the driving sleet outside had been replaced by a soft fall of snow.

“Stay with me tonight,” Potter said, not quite meeting my eye.

“No,” I replied, but somehow the word came out as “okay.”

The Gryffindor common room seemed to be miles away, but Potter kept up a nervous chatter as we walked through the halls and I found myself joining in, telling him about the small events of the past few weeks and the Slytherin gossip and even my fear of my father’s anger. He laughed in the right places and squeezed my hand when my words faltered and that was when it began to sink in that this wasn’t a charade any more but something so much bigger. Something _real_.

We finally reached the tower and Potter gave the password to gain entry. I was relieved to see that the common room was empty. It was bad enough that I was willingly spending time with Harry Potter without there being an audience to witness my downfall. Not to mention the chance of being told on—I couldn’t even begin to imagine the humiliation of being punished for snogging Potter in the Gryffindor area. The last thing I needed was my father thinking I was anything but entirely loyal to Slytherin house.

I moved to take a seat on one of the overstuffed sofas, but Potter pulled me away. “I’m the only seventh year here for Christmas,” he said. “I’ve the dormitory all to myself.”

“If you’re sure,” I said.

When he replied, there was a strange note to his voice. “I’m sure.”

The air in the dorm was a little stuffy and had an undernote of Gryffindor boy. When I removed my shoes and stretched out on Potter’s bed, however, all I could smell was the mix of soap and skin that I had come to associate with him. He sat beside me and looked down at me with a grave expression on his face.

“I should’ve just _asked_ you months ago,” he said.

“Months ago, I would’ve had you committed.”

“Or expelled,” he said and the affectionate look in his eyes should’ve infuriated me but instead I found myself reaching up to trace the curve of his cheek.

“I’m the one who should be committed,” I said. “I’ve obviously gone completely mad.”

“No,” Potter said. “You’re not mad. _Maddening_ , yes. Frequently, in fact. But you’re as sane as I am.”

“That’s hardly an endorsement.”

He shook his head, but the corners of his mouth were lifted in a fond smile. “Will you ever stop insulting me?”

“Never.”

“Good,” he said. “I’d hate for you to change.”

And then he was kissing me again, bent over me so that his hair brushed against my forehead and his supporting hand pushed the pillow flat beside my head. After a while he pulled back and I felt cool air against my heated cheeks as he removed his glasses and discarded them on top of the cupboard beside his bed.  Without them, his eyes seemed even greener, although when he looked down at me they were half closed, heavy with sleep or, I realised suddenly, with something else. Something that was likely reflected in my own eyes.

Looking at him became too difficult, so I curled my fingers around his collar and dragged him down for another kiss. The angle was awkward, so I wriggled over on the bed so that he could lie beside me. He did so, but somehow our legs became tangled and, as we kissed, I pulled him close against me, rolling onto my back and taking him with me. His weight was heavy above me, a maddening feeling that was both crushing and exhilarating at the same time. I traced the lines of his back with my hands, letting them map the curve of his shoulders, the bump of his spine and the dip where his jumper ended and his trousers began. And then, curious, I let my hands drift lower, to the Quidditch-hardened muscle of his thighs and the swell of his behind.

He gasped into the kiss, a strangely gratifying sound, and pressed even closer, so close that our erections met through the fabric of our trousers, sending a sharp arrow of pleasure up my spine.

“Fuck, Draco,” Potter murmured and my body took his words as a demand, my heart pounding as I kissed him again and again, arching to meet his awkward thrusts with my own.

I could feel control spiralling away from me, my mind a haze of sensation and emotional release. I stretched to kiss his neck and he let me for a moment before pulling away.

“Not like this,” he said.

Confused, I stared up at him through glazed eyes. “I thought you wanted…” I trailed off, hating the needy note within my voice.

From his slow smile, I could tell that he’d heard it too. He brushed his lips lightly against mine and then sat up. I resisted the urge to pull him back towards me.

As I watched, he pulled his jumper over his head and began to unbutton his shirt.

“Oh,” I said, and the rush of blood to my cheeks was followed by a tight feeling of anticipation and trepidation within my chest.

When he had removed his shirt he leant over to finger the hem of my own jumper. “Okay?” he asked.

Instead of replying, I pushed myself up into a sitting position and then raised my arms so that he could pull the jumper over my head. His fingers were shaking when he moved on to my buttons, so I took over from him, letting my shirt drop to the floor as cool air goosebumped my skin.

By the time I moved on to my trousers, my hands were shaking too, not helped by the look on Potter’s face as he watched me, his lower lip caught between his teeth. Feeling oddly shy all of a sudden, I looked away as I finished undressing, focusing on a Chudley Cannons poster stuck above the next bed.

I heard a heavy intake of breath and then Potter’s mouth was warm against my neck and I was being tugged back down onto the bed, skin meeting skin as he pulled me tight against him. I gasped as he bit the sensitive spot where my jaw met my neck then dragged his mouth towards my own for a heated kiss.

We continued to kiss even as he wriggled out of his own trousers and underpants, and I tried to concentrate on the feel of his lips and not the enormity of what was happening—what I was _allowing_ to happen. But then he stilled and his kisses grew tentative and, despite myself, I couldn’t help but be curious.

I kissed him lightly and then pulled away, letting my gaze fall and taking in the intoxicating sight of Harry Potter laid out naked beside me, his skin flushed and his cock high and hard. And, at that moment, I realised that I hadn’t been defeated after all. This was victory, and Potter was my prize. I hadn’t managed to have him expelled or assassinated or otherwise removed from my life, but I had conquered him nonetheless. I could break him in that moment. That I didn’t choose to made no difference.

I met his eyes. Something in my expression made him smile.

And then we were drawn together again, skin against skin, flesh against flesh. I rolled over onto my side and Potter did the same, letting one hand slide over the curve of my ribcage and the flat of my waist. His hand drifted lower until it came to rest maddeningly close to my erection.

“Can I…?” he asked, his words almost a whisper.

“You’d better.”

If he tried to reply, his words were cut off by his sharp intake of air as I wrapped my own hand around the shaft of his penis. It felt both foreign and familiar and I liked it. I didn’t know much about boyfriends or emotions, but this I understood. It was a lot like masturbation, just with the gratifying effect of causing Potter’s breath to escape in shallow huffs and his hips to thrust wantonly towards my grasp.

After a few seconds, he let his own hand fall and at first his touch was infuriatingly light, as he traced his fingertips over me as though memorising my shape. But then he closed his fingers around me and copied my rhythm, causing an involuntary moan to escape from my lips. He silenced me with a kiss that was slow and indulgent and I lost myself to the feel of his lips and his hands and the soft heat of his skin.

Potter came first, but I followed only seconds later, the sound of his release sending me over the edge. I fell back against the mattress, trying to catch my breath as the intensity of my orgasm faded away. I was acutely aware of Potter’s naked body beside me and of the sudden silence and stillness in the room. With the last of my strength I reached for his hand and, at my touch, something seemed to crumple inside him.

We were still holding hands when I fell asleep.

 

*

 

When I woke, the room was full of light and Potter was curled against me, his head resting on my chest. The bedclothes were a tangle around us and I was cold and disconcertingly sticky. Trying not to wake Potter, I stretched an arm down to the floor to retrieve my wand from a pile of discarded clothing and, finding it, cast a cleaning spell. It wasn’t perfect, but it’d do until I could find out where the Gryffindor bathroom was.

“You’re still here,” Potter said, his voice heavy with sleep.

“Was I supposed to leave?”

“No.” He stretched and straightened so that he could meet my gaze. “But I thought you would.”

I looked down. “Didn’t even contemplate it.”

“Liar.” Despite the accusation, his tone was warm. When I forced myself to look back up, he was smiling.

“I would’ve come back.”

“I know,” he said. “You always do. It just took me a while to realise that.”

I wasn’t sure I appreciated his certainty. After all, sleeping with your worst enemy and then leaving him broken hearted was the kind of scheme my aunt Bella would come up with. As far as plans went, it would’ve been perfect, except for one annoying detail: the thought of destroying Harry Potter had long since lost its gloss.

“Merry Christmas,” I said to change the subject. “You weren’t speaking to me when I did my shopping, so I didn’t get you anything.”

“Yes you did.”

I rolled my eyes, unwilling to encourage that kind of romanticism. “Stop being sentimental or I’ll take it back.”

Shaking his head, he wrapped an arm around my waist, squeezing me tightly. “No you won’t,” he said. “Not this time. I won’t let you.”

And, as I stretched to kiss him, I knew that he was right. Dating Potter wouldn’t be easy, but it couldn’t be worse than the emptiness of the past few weeks. I was too used to having him around to let him walk away. Enemy or boyfriend, our lives were linked, just as they had been since the very beginning of our first year at Hogwarts.  

“If I say something, will you run away?”

Something in my chest twisted. “No,” I said, my voice tight.

“You are arrogant and frustrating and absolutely intolerable a lot of the time, but I love you anyway.”

I tried to feel horrified, but instead I found myself kissing him, one hand wrapping around the back of his head to pull him close. His hair was soft beneath my palm and his breath was warm against my cheek.

“And you’re an incurable do-gooder,” I said when our lips eventually drifted apart, “who plays on his celebrity and has appalling taste in friends. But I quite like having you around. I—”

The word caught in my throat, but Potter just kissed me again, a gentle brush of lips. “You don’t have to say it,” he said. “I know.”

I wanted to argue with him, but there was a light in his eyes that I couldn’t bear to see go out. So I just let him kiss me, again and again, until words didn’t seem to matter at all.

When he pulled away, his smile was brighter than the sun’s reflection bouncing off the snow outside. “Merry Christmas, Draco,” he said, snuggling back into my side, his bare skin warm against the chill of the air.

“Merry Christmas... Harry.”

He said nothing, but his hand found mine beneath the bedcovers and interlaced our fingers, clinging on to me tightly, as though he would never let me go.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to all the people who made it this far, and also to the people who read the unfinished and far too purple earlier form of the story. There won't be a sequel, because I'm a UST and first time junkie, rather than an established relationship writer, but I love these boys and Harry wants a say, so there will be more in this universe, just shorter pieces this time, because I am supposed to be writing an original novel, not another Drarry one ;p


End file.
